Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

There is a world outside its boundaries, and it is here where I explore, and prove it as a fact, as I have recently done’.

 

Curio posted it, and was surprised when a reply came seconds later from ‘Taser09’:

 

‘Oi! Get back on topic’.

 

After a brief scan through the rest of the new posts on various subjects, he opened up his email, and saw that he had a new message from Ribbet:

 

‘Curio, I’ve done it again. I’ve regressed myself to an unknown time. I was on a pathway near a bridge, sat next to the body of a crow. It turns out I was a cat in this life. I had blood around my mouth and sat there completely satisfied at what I had done. This proves to me that reincarnation is not simply about coming back as the same species, but all species that have consciousness. Anyway, got to go.

Yours

Ribbet.’

 

Curio didn’t need to think about what his response would be. He instantly knew it, and clicked: ‘Reply’.

 

‘Ribbet, thank-you for keeping me informed of your regressions. I don’t doubt your sincerity, or of what you used to be. Reincarnation has never been about returning as the same species. Maybe you will return in the next life as a fish, or a Koala bear. I doubt you, or anyone would know what their next incarnation will be. So it is no surprise to me that you have been something other than a human. I have sometimes wondered about this phenomenon, because it systematically proves that there is life beyond death. It is here that I wonder whether or not we get to choose what our next embodiment will be. Do we decide? Maybe in the next life I would like to be a bird, but not if you’re around as a cat.

 

The thing is, although it would make sense to believe that none of us can choose our parents, and none of us can choose our appearance, I wonder if this is really the case. Do we choose ugliness, and ailments? It would also make sense to believe that we would prefer to be fit and healthy, as attractive as it’s possible to be. Wouldn’t that be the sensible option? Well, I wonder. Maybe some of us choose to be ugly with miserable childhoods, with useless parents. Why, I hear you ask? Why choose this? I think the answer is basically trying something different. If you choose to be handsome and healthy in ten or fifteen consecutive lives, then are you not going to want a change at some point? Maybe it could be a case of: ‘Okay, been there, done that. I want to be a Jaguar, or a Crocodile’. If time is infinite, and I believe it is, then surely you would want to try all aspects of life at least once. That is simply my opinion.

Regards.

Curio’.

 

He clicked: ‘send’, and waited for it to acknowledge his message. As he did, there was a knock on his door. He frowned, looking in that direction. Who could that be? he thought. Nobody had knocked on his door for months. He saw his message had been sent, then shut down the computer.

 

The knock came again, and he looked around the place to see if it was clean enough for a visitor in case they wanted to come in. It wasn’t, but he had to see who it was, and went through to the hall and opened it slightly, peering out into the muted light of the hallway. “Good evening,” said a man who looked to be in his late thirties with a short back and sides haircut and small glasses. He produced identification and held it before Curio. “My name is Michael Patrick, I work for the ‘North-West report’, I wonder if I could interview you about your psychic detection?”.

“A reporter!” Curio said as a statement. “You want to interview me?”. The man simply nodded and put away his identification. Curio smiled and opened the door wide. He gestured inside.

“Come in, Come in”.

 

24

 

 

He was unaware that a speed camera had caught him as he sped along the A552. Anthony was worried about the repercussions of posting the letter. It was lying on the passenger seat without an address, or a stamp. He didn’t know what to write. ‘Widnes police force’ seemed too vague, and with the post always seemingly unstable, he found it increasingly hard to trust them, so wondered whether it might be better if he simply handed it in to a police station outside of Widnes to divert Tom’s attention if caught.

 

He didn’t realise it would be quite so difficult, fraught as it was, with obstacles ready to trip him up and have Tom’s angry face stare down at him. ‘Grass’ he would shout: ‘Call yourself a mate?’. The Wirral seemed as good a place as anywhere to post it from. Tom should be none the wiser.

 

Anthony hoped that the police station had a letter-box outside. Perhaps it would be better to be unmarked, he thought. What if it goes unopened, though? It would not attract much attention and could be mistaken for a circular, an advert for bank loans which are sometimes posted in blank envelopes, or they may simply say: ‘To the occupier’. It could perhaps head straight for the waste.

 

Some sort of attention catcher was required, he thought. He had guessed he might need to do that, so had brought a black marker, which he had decided to discard, should it be used. His fingerprints would be deeply impressed on it, so disposing of it seemed the only option.

 

He had wondered at one point, whether or not his fingerprints could be left on the letter, and on the envelope, so handled them on the edges, even after realising that the police records did not have his fingerprints. He was unfamiliar with this area, so turned off the road and drove into Prenton.

 

After ten minutes of fruitless petrol burning, he eventually found a sign that pointed the way to a police station, and drove past it, not wanting to appear conspicuous by parking outside. He didn’t know how large a range the CCTV camera outside had, or indeed, if there was one there, but it could have been hidden, and he took no chances, so drove around a corner, and parked further up, around fifty metres away, outside the wall to an expansive cemetery.

 

He switched off the engine, and looked down at the envelope. It’s not going to post itself, he thought, and picked it up. His mobile phone then rang, and he looked at the small screen. It was Tom. His fear elevated, and he had the sudden notion that he was ringing him to try and stop him posting the letter. His hand reached slowly forward and he picked it up, then answered.

“Tom,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hi”.

“Ant, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come to a decision. You know the money that Ryvak think they’re losing? well now I’m going to start siphoning it away”.

“What? I thought the bank money was more than enough.” The doubts he had had about posting it had now completely vanished.

“Yes, it is. I’m not keeping it for myself. There are many animal organisations that exist to prevent cruelty such as this, and well, virtually everything else, every injustice caused to them.

 

I’m going to distribute Ryvak’s funds into these organisation’s accounts, and they’ll never know where the money will be coming from. I just thought you should know. I’ll catch up with you later. See ya”. Anthony heard a click, then nothing. He put the mobile back, then put the envelope back on the passenger seat. His doubts came flooding back.

 

Now it came down to two choices, he thought. That money is going to be used for good causes, and yet, the animals used in the experiments were going to be used for good causes. It was a case of humans or animals. Medical advancement, or animal rights. He wondered if Tom was still trying to close down Ryvak, or keep its funds at an even level so that it distributed the money over as long a period of time as possible. There would be no point in having Ryvak close.

 

He thought about calling him back, but then guessed that it may be suspicious if he asked probing questions about Ryvak’s finances. Ask him subtly, he thought. Also, perhaps, if Ryvak was not to close, then the animals would be brought in, and experiments would probably go ahead as planned, so Tom was probably helping out both causes. Whereas I would be only helping out one, if I post this, he thought, looking at the envelope. He pulled away from the kerb, and headed back towards the Mersey tunnel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

25

 

 

Nobody looked twice at him. Everybody seemed locked inside their own little world, focused as they were on nothing else but their own agendas. Malcolm was stood inside a large department store. ‘Benna’s’ was situated near Widnes eastern bypass. They sold 75% clothes, but had recently begun to include items which it seemed were sold nowhere else. Discounted cookery and wine books, low-budget, made for TV films, and paraphernalia that was obviously cheaply made and cheaply sold.

 

It reminded Malcolm of a supermarket. Not content with providing food, as they were originally built for, they began to sell other items, which eventually came so prominent that they were no longer places to go simply for food. They sold most of what the average person needed and wanted. However, they were not the first places to think of for certain items. Baked beans, check. Bread rolls, check. Semi-skimmed milk, check. 24inch widescreen television, check. Low-fat yoghurt, check.

 

He wondered if they would start selling their own brand vehicles. It wouldn’t have surprised him at all, and it didn’t matter to Malcolm, he didn’t care. All that mattered to him was finding out why his mother was murdered, and to do that, he had to get inside the mind of his father, but as he had joined her, his motives had gone with him. He was here to see Andy Forbes, his best friend.

 

Malcolm had never known where he lived, but knew he worked with his father who used to be a warehouse supervisor in this store. Andy was the customer services manager, and he hoped it wasn’t his day off, or he had left. He also hoped he would take time to talk to him. If not, then as soon as he was available.

 

Malcolm wanted his answers as fast as possible, to alleviate the weight on his mind that was becoming heavier, because he was sure that the motives were available. His father must have left something behind to point the way. If he knew that there was absolutely no way of getting an answer, then he knew he would easily have accepted it. There was no point in trying to run a marathon in five minutes. It wasn’t going to happen, and that is accepted. Yet Malcolm was convinced there was something which would ease the weight from his mind. He wondered if Andy could help him.

 

At the ‘please pay here’ counter near the entrance, there was only one till occupied of three available. A queue had formed, and a red faced young girl serving did not look happy, even behind her customary smile at the customers. Her professional façade failed to mask the fact that she obviously hated every second of being there, and that there was absolutely no other motivation whatsoever than that she was being paid. Probably a pittance. Probably minimum wage, but it seemed obvious that should she receive a better offer, she would be out of the door like a bullet.

 

Malcolm thought it best not to queue up simply to ask for Andy’s whereabouts, and instead decided to ask one of the general assistants. It didn’t take long to find one, an acne faced teenager sorting through a