Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

he knew the reality of telepathy and aliens? He just needed more practice in performance and understanding. He wanted to explain the unexplained. He wanted the unknown to become known. He wanted to pioneer the proof of supernatural activity. He wanted to go down in history as the man who finally silenced the sceptics, who made them embarrassed and apologetic. He wanted them on their knees, begging his forgiveness, worshipping him as an idol. A man to be looked up to, to be respected, a pillar of society. A man whose kudos was full to the brim, whose portrait hung in believer’s houses, especially in houses where once there was misgivings, where they looked at his picture in awe.

 

They would thank him for showing them the reality of paranormal activity, for turning them into believers. Where once there was doubt, now there was fact, and Philip would show them that. He would shove it in their faces until they could ask no more questions. Here is my proof, show me yours. No-one would doubt him. They would beg him for his advice and wisdom.

By that time he would probably be rich. Nice car, nice house, glamour model girlfriend. His rewards for his knowledge, and his sharing of it with the world. He had changed his name to Curio Enchantment. Not by deed poll, but by simply referring to it when strangers asked. That was what he would be known as when it circulated further. For now though, his dreams of fame and notoriety were simply that, dreams.

 

He had a mountain to climb, and he just wondered how much further he had to go. His attempts at seeing the future where he was lifting an award was somewhat clouded. He had to practice precognition, and many other abilities. Now that he was known to the police as a possibility in helping with their investigations, they should help his career no end, and he hoped that the telephone would ring more often, as sometimes months would pass where it remained silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3

 

 

Malcolm Selden wasn’t listening to a lecture about electronic and computer engineering at Widnes university. His mind was elsewhere. Perhaps if the lecturer was saying something interesting, he would still be in a world of his own, as he had come to try and take his mind off his concern, but it was no use. He was sat at the back of the lecture theatre, slouched in a chair, his arms folded, staring at the back of the chair in front, but not seeing it.

 

He was 27 years old, single, wore casual clothes that always bordered on old-fashioned, and had a ‘business man’s cut’ hairstyle. He was studying for a first degree with honours in Information systems development. His friend, Tom Parker was sat in a seat diagonal from him. He was watching Malcolm with curiosity.

“You still worried?” he whispered. Malcolm looked at him, breaking from his stupor. “Worried?” he said. “I can’t stop thinking of it. It just doesn’t make sense. My dad isn’t like that. He wouldn’t just kill my mum like that. I’m sorry. It doesn’t add up. I know he did it. He admitted it, and all the forensics have confirmed that it was him who strangled her, but it just doesn’t make sense. He was never violent. As far as I know, he never lifted a finger to her. I don’t remember him even shouting at me. He just would not suddenly decide to kill my mum like that”. He clicked his fingers, and noticed that the theatre was quiet. He saw that the lecturer had stopped speaking, had folded his arms, and was staring up at Malcolm. Other faces looked in his direction. His face went red and he went back to staring at the back of the chair.

 

The lecturer continued:

“After their establishment, both systems become peers”. Malcolm and Tom exchanged glances, which basically said: ‘I’ll speak to you later’.

 

The building was a modern structure, with orange bricks and oddly angled windows, reflecting an attempt to come into modern society by basically resembling what was probably a student’s architectural design project. In the foyer, where there was always a constant stream of students, coming and going, and standing outside, smoking, Malcolm and Tom walked slowly to the exit, their day over in the place. It was 12:00 noon.

“So what are you going to do?” asked Tom. Malcolm was deep in thought.

“What can I do? Tell the police I think my Dad just had a moment of madness? He won’t do it again, promise”. Tom had no answer.

“I’ll have to go and see him,” Malcolm continued, “There’s nothing else I can do. I have to understand why”. They walked outside.

 

Tom was 25, three inches shorter than Malcolm, always wore clothing that was white, or cream, with a cap that seemed perfectly suited to him. He was one of those people that easily suited headgear.

“Hey, there’s that girl you fancy,” he said, looking in the direction of a group of girls, chatting near a metal bench. One in particular had long black hair and was wearing a dusty pink sequin neck dress. She had her back to them.

“Where? This uni’s is full of girls I fancy. It must be a prerequisite of entry. All girls must be fit,” said Malcolm. He saw her.

“She’s with her mates,”. Tom frowned, and said:

“I bet even if she was on her own, you wouldn’t talk to her”. He smiled, but Malcolm’s sour expression reminded him of what was on his mind, and it vanished. They both walked away.

 

When his father appeared, he looked as though he had just woken up. He had a stubble and his hair was dishevelled. Sitting down opposite Malcolm, and folding his arms, he regarded him like an unwelcome stranger.

“What?” he asked. Malcolm leaned forward on the desk.

“Dad! What are you doing? Why d’you suddenly decide to kill mum? It doesn’t make sense. That’s not like you at all, now what were you thinking? Why Dad, why? Tell me”. Peter Selden’s expression did not change. He took a few moments to answer, and shrugged.

“I wanted to”.

“Is that it? You just felt like. Suddenly you just decided to strangle my mum, drive her out into a field and bury her. From the moment you put your hands round her neck, you knew exactly what you were doing. What I don’t understand is why. What did she do? 38 years you’ve been married. 38 years, and now you just decide to kill her just because you felt like!”. Peter nodded.

“I just killed her. That’s the way it is. It’s what I did”. His expression became introverted, thinking back to the event.

“Yep,” he nodded. “I killed her, I drove her out into the field, strangled her, buried her, drove back. Then I watched that soap opera that I like”. He smiled, thinking of that. “Bobby started an affair with the bar-maid. When it finished, I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but while the kettle boiled, there was a knock on the door. I answered it, and…”. Peter’s face changed to one of concern, with a slight hint of fear.

“Then I…I don’t know”. Malcolm shook his head.

“That’s not a reason. You just wanted to. You just decided to kill her! Come on dad, tell me. Make me understand. It’s not like you at all. You wouldn’t kill her for no reason, just ‘cos you felt like. It doesn’t make fucking sense”. Peter just sat there, as though he wasn’t listening.

“What happened Dad? What happened? Why didn’t you just tell me to mind my language? The Dad I knew would have done”. Peter shrugged. Malcolm quickly stood up, the plastic chair clattering backwards. He banged both his palms on the table. “For fuck’s sake Dad, tell me why?” Malcolm felt hands grab his arms and pull him backwards.

“Time’s up son,” someone said to him. Peter still looked introverted. He wasn’t looking at Malcolm.

“She had to die,” he said, “She had to die”.

 

Malcolm was sat in a paved shopping area, on a bench, staring at a few scruffy pigeons searching for food. It had begun to rain slightly, and his face and hair was covered in light drizzle. All he could think of was his father’s words: “She had to die”. What did he mean by that? and why did she have to die? He had no answers, but knew he could not function properly without knowing, without understanding. It was no use in persisting with Dad, he was useless, he thought, but what else can I do? Maybe it would be worth trying him again though, and the police are going to grill him anyway. They should be able to prise a proper answer out of him. Then I’ll have to get the answer from them, he thought.

 

It wasn’t simply a case of just walking into the police station and saying: ‘So what did my Dad say? Why’d he kill my Mum?’. It might be even harder to get an answer out of them. Still, it would be worth going back again sometime, just in-case he’s gone back to being the Dad I once knew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4

 

 

The telephone only rang twice in the following two days. One was a wrong number, the other was from ‘Kickin’ FM radio who wanted to invite Curio onto one of their shows with DJ Space Hoppa. He always had guests on to answer calls from the public, interspersed with the latest chart tracks. It was basically aimed at teenagers. Hoppa’s guests were never truly famous. They were people who had made a fragment of a name for themselves locally, and saw that coming onto Hoppa’s show was an amazing career boost, even though the airwaves only covered half of the north-west. Basically, when

Hoppa announced who the guest was, it was usually a case of: ‘I’ve never heard of them’.

 

However, Curio’s appearance on the show was the following day. As the body was not headline news, its discovery by Curio only warranted a small section in the corner of page seven of the local free circular. They used his real name and no picture.

 

Today, he had to suffer the embarrassment of walking into the jobcentre and signing on. He could not yet tell them where to go, where they could stick their girocheques, but he was quite sure he wasn’t far away from doing that.

A balding man in his late forties looked at Curio across the desk as though he was wondering whether or not he was serious.

“OK, Mr Enchantment. You wish to have your name altered to Curio. Is that right? You want me to change what it says on the system”.

“I don’t want to be known as Philip anymore. Could you change it please?” The man shook his head.

“No, I can’t do that. I’ll have to book you in to see an advisor. Tell them, they’ll do it”.

Curio frowned, disbelieving.

“An appointment? Are you serious? Look, forget it. Just give me a pen”. The man did so, trying desperately not to grin. Philip signed his name and went to stand up.

“Er, hold on, Mr Enchantment. What have you been doing to look for work?”

“This and that,” he muttered. He hadn’t done a thing lately, so enamoured and convinced was he that riches were just over the horizon, that finding a job was pointless.

“What?”

“Sent some letters off to a few supermarkets”. The man nodded, and typed something on the computer.

“There’s no vacancies for psychic detectives yet, but I’ll keep you posted”, the man said, not hiding his grin.

“Glad to see you know who I am,” said Curio. He was handed his card, and got up and left. Outside in the cold air, beneath a white sky and gathering wind, Curio nodded at what he had just said in the jobcentre. The man knew who he was, it seemed outside of the records. He headed home, people around him passing by like robots, as they always did to everybody who