Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

rack of men’s fleece tops who watched Malcolm’s approach with trepidation. He was probably here on a government backed work experience project, or scheme, and could only perform the barest minimum of basic skills required for the job.

“Hi, I wonder if you could tell me if Andy Forbes is in? the customer services manager,” Malcolm asked. The boy thought for a few seconds, then pointed upwards.

“Customer service desk, upstairs, he should be there”.

“Thanks,” said Malcolm, and walked to an elevator. He was walking past ladies lingerie when he saw at the back, the customer service counter. In front of it, another young female assistant was being spoken to by a man who Malcolm assumed was her superior. She also had a red face, but this looked to be because of embarrassment. She was looking at the man with wide, concerned eyes, and nodding appropriately. Malcolm stopped and looked with feigned interest at cushions and bedsheets.

“…and I hope you’ll remember that next time,” the man said.

“K,” said the girl, turning and walking away. Malcolm approached the man.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I wonder if you could tell me where I could find Andy Forbes?” “Yes, I do” he said. Malcolm then noticed his name badge.

“How can I help?”.

“I’ve come to ask you about my father”. Andy looked curious for a moment.

“Yes, I recognise you, you’re his son”, he said as a statement. A melancholy expression dawned on his face as he remembered his friend.

“Sad business that. He was a good mate”.

“I hoped you might be able to tell me why he might have killed my mother, or offer me some explanation that might help me understand more”. Andy looked around the store, then at the customer service counter. It was not occupied.

“Come through,” he said, and Malcolm was taken behind the counter into an office where a woman was hunched over a computer, her face inches from the screen. There was another office at the back, the window in the door bearing his name.

 

They both entered, Andy closing the door behind him. The office was small and cramped, with far too many items in it, most of which Malcolm guessed was useless, hardly ever used, or read. Papers, folders, files, all strewn around haphazardly, but Andy knew where everything was. He gestured for him to sit down.

 

Before he did, Malcolm had to remove a cardboard box, but they were soon sat opposite each other, Andy reclining in his creaking swivel chair.

“I don’t know why Peter did what he did. I don’t suppose I ever will know, unless you find out and let me know. However, there is one reason which may point towards his actions. Whether it’s the reason or not, I do not know,” said Andy.

“I’m open to all suggestions. Anything that will make me even the slightest bit more satisfied will be a great help”. Andy was silent for a few moments, looking as though he was contemplating whether or not to carry on talking.

“Earlier this year, I had gone away for a few days in Austria, taking the wife and kids. Whilst there, I came upon an antiques shop. It sold all sorts, and one thing I couldn’t leave there without, was an old flint lock pistol. You’re probably aware that customs in this country is probably amongst the tightest in the world. So I rang and asked your father for his advice. Should I basically try and bring it into this country? I suppose I could use the word ‘smuggle’. Your father didn’t advise me not to. He never said to not take the risk. He left it up to me. Not that the choice was his anyway.

 

All I wanted was his advice, and he kind of told me to give it a try. Well, I bought the gun, and decided not to declare it at customs. I got through, nobody stopped me, and I still have it at home. The thing is, Peter was concerned enough to tell your mother, who, I believe tried to get him to ring me back to tell me not to do it.

 

They argued about it, but in the end, he obviously won. I believe he declined to give her the number, so she could try and persuade me not to do it. Maybe she did find the number, but never got the chance to ring”. Malcolm waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“So…you mean, that my mother was going to ring you? and Dad stopped her by strangling her, taking her out into a field and burying her. All because you wanted to smuggle a gun through customs?”.

“It could be a possibility”. Malcolm shook his head.

“No, sorry, I’m not satisfied. That’s very unlikely”. With both palms upwards, Andy shrugged.

“You never know”. He then stood up, and it was obvious to Malcolm that he wished for him to leave. They both walked out to where they had met, and shook hands.

“It’s been good to see you,” said Andy, “Come and see me again sometime”. Malcolm guessed that that was not meant. It was simply a formality, something polite to say upon departure.

“Right, OK, bye,” said Malcolm, then turned and headed for the elevator.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

26

 

 

The alarm had been set for 8am, two hours earlier than normal, and Curio had dressed quickly, skipped breakfast, and headed to the newsagents where he was told the article featuring him would be in the ‘North west report’. He was the first to buy a copy, and couldn’t wait to get back to his flat to read it, so walked out of the shop, stopped and rifled through the pages, looking for it. It was on page seven, and took up the upper half. There was a picture of him which the reporter had taken, and the headline read:

 

‘PSYCHIC FINDS FIFTH BODY IN A ROW’. He smiled as he read the article. It was all positive. The reporter seemed to have found Curio to be very constructive and newsworthy. The last paragraph read: ‘I am always sceptical of all things supernatural, but Curio offered to give me a reading.

 

He told me things that nobody else could have known, and predicted future occurrences which would not surprise me should they come true. A unique individual with a talent I am certainly in awe of. I can honestly say that Curio Enchantment is a psychic genius’.

Curio punched his fist in the air.

“Yes!” he said aloud. “Psychic genius”. An elderly man looked at him with curiosity as he walked by, but he didn’t care. Beneath the article, both of his telephone numbers, and his email had been printed. He had mentioned that he was available to give readings for a fee of £20 per time, and to ring for details. He would not have people go to the flat, rather arrange a meeting in a neutral place, or visit their home.

 

He then realised that he should get back to the flat soon, as people may already be ringing him. The stairs leading up did not seem as tiring this time, even though he had probably ascended them in the fastest time he had ever walked up them.

 

Opening the door, he didn’t close it, or take off his coat, but strode across to the landline telephone. He saw that he had three messages, and smiled. He did not hesitate in playing them:

‘Hi…er Curio. Just wondered can you give me a reading? Give us a call on…” the man gave his telephone number and clicked off.

‘Curio. I saw your article and I am hoping you can give me and my friend a reading in our apartment. We’re available all day. Please call back on…’ The woman gave her number. He wondered what type of reading she was thinking of.

‘Mr Enchantment. I would like for you to give me a reading please. My name is Geoff Bridgeman. Please call me back on…’ He gave his number. This is where I can start earning proper money, he thought. This is a significant step on the path to fame. If I do well, then maybe I can start charging more. My reputation will grow and people will be familiar with me. Nothing much had come from his recent forays into the public consciousness.

 

Now with his successes and with people recommending him, he could show people the reality of the paranormal, receive high eminence and celebrity status. No going back now, he thought. There would be no dipping of the toe into the glamorous world of stardom and pulling away to go back into hiding because it was not liked, not as he thought it would be. He would embrace it, would love to be surrounded by new friends, people who admired him for showing them reality. He hoped they would, because he knew, and believed with absolute certainty that he represented truth.

 

His mobile phone had two messages, both of which wanted readings, and he decided to get his breakfast before answering any of them. While he ate his crispy flakes in the kitchen, the telephone rang again, and he put the bowl down on the counter, spilling some. He dashed to the telephone and answered it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

27

 

 

The café was fairly quiet. Occasionally a raised voice and a clattering of cutlery from the kitchen pierced the ambience, but the place harboured a sombre atmosphere, and provided students with a welcome relief from studying and classes.

 

Yet, the only students in there, Melissa Callum, Jane Fielding, Adam Leonard, and Stuart Harper, were rather anxious about their group project. Jane and Adam both had steaming cups of coffee before them.

“Right, OK, this seems to be the only thing we’ve got so far,” said Adam, holding up a folder containing the project brief and details of their chosen subject. Their project was to make a ten minute documentary on any topic. They had chosen ghosts, and had printed from the internet, details of an urban farm, four miles away which had a reputation for being haunted. Ted Lester had owned the farm, and ran it single-handedly. He had been 57, and had not given retirement any consideration at all.

 

Sometimes he accepted youths from government schemes on work experience over winter, but most of the time he liked to keep the wheels oiled and turning himself. There were not many animals kept. There were a few chickens, two horses, several pigs, and four goats that made up the inhabitants. For 19 years he had kept order, and enjoyed his little urban outcrop on the fringe of Rainhill until 1979. The nearest bus stopped half a mile away, and it was not signposted.

 

He never appreciated too many visitors, and those that he did have had not been searching for it. A lot of them were ramblers coming into the town from their walks, and spotted the farm on the way. It was when he received a letter from the local council stating that a dual-carriageway was to be built in its path, that he decided to sell all of his livestock and fight the battle against what the committee had called ‘progress’. Ted had simply called it ‘pollution’.

 

Chartered surveyors and architects had to bring police with them when they inspected the site, as while Ted always preferred negotiation to violence, he thought he was justified in nearly breaking the jaw of one of the surveyors when they had first examined the site. Basically, Ted had thought that no matter how intelligent and diplomatic a person, there came a time when a simple strike to the jaw was reasonable. Bureaucratic red tape had meant that Ted was not entitled to sell the farm, as it had never technically been his.

 

Deals were not finalised when the place was built, and Ted had lived there rent free, but never the actual owner. It meant the council could repossess the property and basically evict Ted, giving him no alternative accommodation. It did not matter to them where he went, or what he did.

 

Ted knew that if they got their way, he would