Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

all sipped their drinks.

 

Somebody else came in, crossed to the bar, muttered something to the barmaid, and then walked out again.

“What about you? How’s the detective work?” Tom asked.

“I’m pretty much at a dead end. I’ve started getting back into my studies. I don’t think I’ll ever find out why my Dad went mental”. Anthony frowned.

“I heard about that,” he said, “I’m sorry to hear about it”. Malcolm smiled a humourless smile. My first sympathiser, he thought.

“It’s OK, these things happen, so I’m told”.

“Your Mum was found by a psychic detective, wasn’t she?” Anthony asked. Malcolm nodded, sipping his drink.

“Well, it was his fourth success apparently at finding bodies that have gone missing. Which means there must be something in it. He must have some…er, gift. If he’s genuine, and can perform psychic…erm..” “Trickery,” said Tom, grinning.

“No, perform psychic skills, then maybe he could be able to get in contact with your Dad, or maybe your Mum, and tell you what happened. What have you got to lose?” Malcolm thought about it, sipping his drink.

“I’m not really a believer,” he said, “but I suppose that’s because I haven’t thought about it much. It could be a possibility, but how am I to know he isn’t just going to spin me all

sorts of things that I already know? ‘Your mother, she’s…hold on, she’s…a woman…Your father..a man.. right, that’ll be fifty quid”. Anthony sipped his drink. “No, what if he does know? What if it’s real, and he can contact them? Like I say, what have you got to lose?”. Malcolm was quiet for a moment, the only sound the sipping of drinks. He then nodded.

“Yes, I suppose you are right. I’ll have to somehow find him”.

“Don’t worry”, said Anthony, “I know some media students who are doing a group project for their multimedia course. They’ve decided to go ghost-hunting, and are going to film everything. I mentioned Curio’s name to them…”.

“Curio?” said Malcolm.

“Yes, that’s his name, Curio Enchantment”. Malcolm and Tom simply looked at each other.

“I told them about him” Anthony continued, “Well he’s local isn’t he? lives here in Widnes. I mentioned him to them and they thought he could help their project, having a genuine psychic there. So at some point they’ll be contacting him, and Curio will be here, or wherever the students will be, so you’ll be able to speak to him then. Give me your number. I’ll let you know when he’s coming. If he decides to come, that is”. Malcolm finished his drink, and all of them rummaged around in their pockets for a pen.

 

Tom had a bus ticket, and Malcolm borrowed a pencil from the bar-maid. After scribbling down the number, they all left, walking out into a sunny morning, the type of which held a chill in the air. The sun had decided to show itself, but not give out any heat.

 

Tom and Malcolm were heading for their class in quantum information and computation, Anthony to a lecture on internet and multimedia computing. He bid them both farewell and pocketed Malcolm’s number, disappearing around the bar corner.

“That’s it then,” said Malcolm, “That’s my only thread, my only hope of finding an answer. Waiting for a phone call from somebody who I don’t really know, to tell me that some students who I don’t know at all, are going to try and persuade someone to help them out in their project, someone who hears voices inside their head”.

“What else have you got?” said Tom. They both walked across campus, discussing Tom’s foray further into the world of cyber-crime and his increment within it.

 

They reached the few steps leading into the building and were about to enter when Tom stopped and looked across at a road separating the building from a small park where several students lounged around, relaxing. Standing on the kerb, but obviously not waiting to cross was Erica Riordan.

“Eh? Look, there’s that girl you fancy, on her own, waiting for Mr Perfect to come and sweep her off her feet and spend lots of cash on her…See you then,” said Tom, walking a few steps towards her. With a big grin on his face, he turned and joined Malcolm at his side. Erica was around forty metres away, and was not aware she was being watched. She had her arms folded, with a wedged-in folder, and kept looking in both directions.

“Well?” said Tom.

“Well what?” asked Malcolm, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Aren’t you going to talk to her?” He was silent for a few moments.

“I’m not Mr Perfect. She’s probably the type who wouldn’t consider going out without anyone who wasn’t their idea of Mr Perfect, Mr Right. If someone had all the signs she was after, but had one thing slightly wrong, she’d probably tell him to eff off, he’s not quite right”.

“Yep, and in the meantime, while she’s waiting, she’s getting older, and less and less attractive, and then one day if Mr Right finally crossed her path, her eyes will light up and she will reach out to embrace him, but because she’s become so unattractive, Mr Right doesn’t even notice her, or look twice. He’s probably searching for Mrs Right, and she ain’t it. She grows old a bitter and twisted woman, who hates everybody and everything, who is only remembered because she was such a misery”.

Malcolm nodded.

“If only such a girl would lower her standards”.

“Only one way to find out,” said Tom. Malcolm clenched his fists and his face tinged red slightly.

“I’m gonna do it,” he said. “I’m gonna do it”. He was about to take the first step when a silver Mitsubishi lancer evolution pulled up in front of her. The driver had the window down and Malcolm and Tom could see that he wasn’t happy, and neither, it seemed, was Erica.

 

They were too far away to catch what they were saying, but a few words were audible. Erica over exaggeratedly tapped her watch, and her folder dropped to the pavement, papers scattering about. “…ime d’you call this?”.

The man got out and slammed the door. He was tall, had very short hair all over, wore combat trousers and a white T-shirt. He looked like he spent considerable time in the gymnasium.

“...cks sake girl…ken busy”. He helped her grab the papers.

“…reful...wi em”. He opened the back door and threw them and the folder in, slamming it shut. He hooked a thumb to the car, his face set in a scowl.

“Gerrin the fuckin’ car…nt go time”. He got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

Erica gestured wildly as she walked around to the passenger side.

“…kin problem?”. She got in, and before she had a chance to slam the door, the tyres screeched for a split second before the car sped away, leaving one lone sheet of A4 on the kerb.

“See that?” said Tom. “That’s her Mr Perfect. Good physique. Probably handsome, I couldn’t see properly. Nice car, probably rich. He has all the hallmarks of Mr Right”.

Malcolm shook his head.

“No, he might have all that, but he’s got one downfall. He’s a cunt. Rich and handsome, yes, but with the personality of a dead rat. You could just tell he was obviously some sort of gangster. A steroid pumped thug. It was obvious soon as I saw him”.

“Thing is though,” said Tom, “He’s rich, handsome, all that, and he’s got the girl. Your girl”. Malcolm shook his head.

“No way, you know, that tells me more about her than it does him. That fucker’s done me a favour”. They were both quiet for a few seconds, staring at where Erica had been standing. They then turned and entered the building.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

21

 

 

The shed looked as though it hadn’t been opened in years. The wood was rotting, the locks were rusty, and grass grew around it as though the structure had emerged from the ground. Moss and cobwebs were abundant, and the window was so ground in with dirt that even the most powerful torch would barely be able to penetrate it.

 

Anthony was staring at it from the doorway of his backyard. His mother and father had recently departed for Blackpool to stay overnight with their childhood friends, so Anthony had his best chance to write the letter to the police. The old typewriter was in there somewhere, he thought. It was basically now or never.

 

The shed was not locked, and its contents would have been no good to thieves. A cracked bucket. A rusty fork and spade. A well used museum piece of a lawnmower. It was crowded with bits and pieces of paraphernalia that at one point had stopped being of any use, but was still good enough not to throw away, just in case one day they may be useful again, but they never had, and they had weathered down in time to be of little use at all.

 

Anthony hoped the typewriter was still useful, and still had ribbon. He crossed the lawn which was in serious need of mowing, and opened the shed, and instantly knew he would have problems locating it. It was in there somewhere. He clambered around inside, moving pieces of furniture and carpet, and eventually located it right at the back. For his efforts, he was jabbed in the side by a broken handle of a sweeping brush, but he got the contraption out, and carried it back to the house. The underside was rusty, and some of the side, but it seemed workable.

 

In his bedroom, he had already prepared his small desk by laying a towel across it. He placed the typewriter on it and wound in a sheet of paper. He then decided that he was hungry, and went downstairs to the kitchen and made himself a strawberry jam sandwich. He sat in the living room eating it, reading a pull-out section of a newspaper about property, but after a few minutes, he had to admit to himself that he needed to face up to the letter. He had to write it. Finishing his sandwich, he went upstairs, sat down at the typewriter, and began to write:

 

‘Dear Sir/Madam,

I am writing to you because there is something I have to tell you. My conscience will not let me let him get away with what he is doing. As you are probably aware, there is a medical research company called ‘Ryvak’ which is intending to open in the Wirral, just off the M53. This is a facility that will use animals for experiments that I feel will enhance our medical knowledge. However, because of this, because they are going to use animals, somebody I know is hacking into it. He is quite adept at hacking into various places, and Ryvak is his latest attack. Basically what he is doing is manipulating the finances of the company, so it looks like they’re losing money. When the managers realise this, then what will become of the employees jobs? Nobody will be able to contemplate the research while they are losing funds. They must continue this work, and I cannot sit back and let him do it. So I am appealing to you to please investigate, and stop him from doing any further damage than what he has already done. His name is Thomas Parker. He lives at 35 Glenmere road. Widnes. That is the address where he is hacking from.

Yours Faithfully

Anon.’

 

That should do it, he thought. He read it over. The ink was grey, and some of the letters were smudged, but it was readable. He found an envelope and wondered whether or not he should just post it at the police station. That way he would not need to travel to a different postal district.

 

Yet, paranoia usually always got the better of him. What if there were cameras outside the station, and they recorded me posting it? he thought. No, he guessed he would have to travel a few miles, post it, then listen to Tom’s frantic worrying. ‘They’re on to me. They’re on to me’. He hoped