Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

difficult for her.

“I’ve lost Fingal, my Cockatiel…he’s...he’s been missin’ now…for about six hours…please ..could you find him for me..?” She clicked off, and Curio shook his head at the telephone. Try the parks, try the roofs. Speak to a few cats that are not hungry, he thought. Turning to walk into the kitchen, the contraption rang, and he hurriedly snatched it up.

“Hi, Curio Enchantment speaking”.

“Hello, Mr Enchantment, I work for a magazine called: ‘Lazy days’. It’s a weekly real-life experiences publication with a national circulation. I wish to do a feature on you”. Curio smiled, a rush of pleasure firing through him.

After a few minutes, he put the telephone down. He was still happy. They wanted to do a double-page spread article on him, and take a few pictures of him in his home. They were due in three days time. He checked his diary. Two readings that day would have to be rescheduled. Today, he had to be at Mr Glendon’s house for a reading at 2pm. He made himself a cup of tea and then sat at the computer, starting it up.

 

National circulation, he thought. This could be it, recognition nationwide. It would be a showcase for him to prove to the rest of the world that he had a genuine gift. The journalist wanted to focus on his psychic detection. Curio was to discuss his technique and the implications of it, but as that was an aspect of his endowment, he knew he would ask the journalist to include his other attributes. Should the person simply want to focus on his success at detection, then that would be fine, he thought.

 

He didn’t want to give the person any reason to not go through with the article. It was to be one of those features that gave £200 for a ‘true story’. It was the type of magazine that featured what seemed to be ex-tabloid journalists who simply couldn’t let go of their urges to create exaggerated tales geared towards sensationalism rather than truth. To attach the words: ‘true story’ to it, seemed to be rather fanciful. They featured such headlines as: ‘I killed and ate my Father’. ‘Why I adore my trans-sexual convict lover’, and ‘I married my son’. Curio wondered what his would be: ‘Master of detection strikes a fifth’. ‘The North-west Psyking finds five in a row’. Yes, he thought, nodding, that’ll do nicely. £200, plus it was a bigger platform for appreciation. He checked his email, and saw that there was nothing of any interest.

 

There was nothing from Ribbet, or Abe. There was nothing of any significance on the ‘Uncanny kingdoms’ message-board either. Well, Abe, he thought. Scared to face me? Sitting there in a bad mood because you’ve been proven wrong? Nevermind. He shut down the computer, stood up and walked across to the window. The car-park was empty, and he stood there, looking out until it was time for his appointment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

34

They emerged into Lime street station in Liverpool. It was a while since Malcolm had been there. Melissa had been many times, but not since she had started university, two years ago. Many people were simply waiting around, waiting for their trains. Some stared up at the arrivals and departures board. A lot of people simply passed through.

 

Outside of a café, four sets of steel tables and chairs had been set up. One of them was occupied by a moustached, overweight man who looked to be in his late forties. He only had a black coffee before him. He was just staring at nothing, daydreaming his own private thoughts, in his own private world.

“Shall we grab a coffee before we make our way down there?” asked Malcolm, looking at the tables.

“Why not?” said Melissa, and they were soon sat opposite each other, tea and coffee both curling steam between them.

“So what’s all this for then?” he asked, gesturing to the camcorder bag. “What’s it aiming towards?”. Melissa took a sip of tea and said:

“It’ll be aiming towards you when you find Ian”. Malcolm smiled slightly. She continued:

“I’m studying for a foundation degree in digital media production. I’m hoping to become a multimedia designer. It’s a niche market to get into, and there’s plenty of competition. If I can’t get into that, then I’ll try and settle for something related in some way”. There was a few seconds silence. Then she asked:

“So what about you. What d’you hope to do after uni?”. He sipped his coffee. “I’d like to be a systems analyst, although at the present rate it doesn’t look as if I’ll get very far. I suppose I should be studying now, not travelling up here to find ‘Ian’, who exists in the mind of some psychic who I gave twenty quid to”.

“What if he’s right? this Curio. What if Ian is here? and he tells you everything to put your mind at ease. Curio must have something, some gift. I mean, he’s found five missing persons in a row. That must have some significance in proving that he has some connection with the paranormal.

 

If Ian is here, then that will definitely prove it. Curio will have some connections with the other side. It won’t be speculation any more. No more, are ghosts real? It’ll prove life after death as well, won’t it? Do you think he communicated with your father?”.

“I’d like to think so, but the cynic in me has doubts. Let’s go and find Ian, then I’ll give

Curio more credibility if he’s right”.

They left the station, the large structure of St George’s hall imposing over to their right.

They were faced with a choice of directions.

“What way is it?” asked Melissa. “I haven’t been here for ages”.

“Erm…I think we go straight ahead,” said Malcolm.

 

After around ten minutes, they arrived at the wide paved area between the Liver buildings and the railing looking out across the River Mersey to the Wirral. Melissa took out the camcorder and set about getting it ready. They headed closer to the water and stopped at the metal barrier.

“If we find him,” said Malcolm, “Are you just going to start filming? or are you going to ask for his permission? He might be camera shy”.

“Well I need the marks, so I’ve decided to just take the risk. If he tells me to stop filming, then I will. Actually, I suppose I should do an introduction to say what it is we’re actually doing. Can you film me?”. Malcolm nodded, and she handed him the camera. Soon she was in shot, the river behind, the film rolling.

“I’m here with Malcolm…” she went to say his second name, but then realised that she didn’t know it. “..and with regards to the reading he had from Curio Enchantment, he has kindly agreed to let me follow up the information he was given by the psychic. We are here at the pier-head, looking for ‘Ian’. I’m hoping we find him”. She nodded for Malcolm to finish, and he stopped the film and handed it back to Melissa.

“Right then,” he said. “Where do we begin?”. He scanned around. The passers-by and tourists did not fit into the vagabond description.

For around five minutes they wondered around, but could see no candidates. There was an archway near the fence, and they decided to search through there. It was a wide walkway that led to the Albert dock.

 

When they walked through, Malcolm stopped, as around halfway along, leaning against the rail, looking down at the irregular surface of the Mersey, was a candidate. From around thirty metres away, he could see that he had wiry, unwashed hair, and a dark brown coat that was stained and rough, as though he’d found it in a skip, and had never taken it off in many years. Malcolm looked at Melissa and nodded in his direction. She saw him, then prepared the camcorder.

“Get a bit closer,” she said, “and I’ll film you as you approach him”.

“Are you sure you’re going to take the risk? He’ll probably take one look at that and grab it, and run off to buy some meths”. He looked back at him. He was now staring at the Wirral. Malcolm slowly breathed in a nervous breath, then slowly walked across to him. Melissa approached around four metres behind, and a few people passed between them, casting curious glances at the lens.

“Excuse me,” said Malcolm, tapping the man’s shoulder. He quickly turned and looked directly at him, as though his peace and solitude had been rudely interrupted. His face was reddened and wrinkled. He looked to be in his late fifties, and had a curly white beard at around half an inch, stained tobacco yellow.

“What?” he said, frowning. Malcolm felt even more nervous.

“Are you…er..Ian? A friend of Peter Selden’s, my father”. The man’s face changed to one of surprise.

“Malcolm,” he said. “Malcolm. Yes, I knew your Father. It’s such an honour to meet you”. He proffered a wrinkled, tobacco stained hand to him. Malcolm shook it reluctantly.

“Oh…Ok.” he said “I was hoping you could tell me why he would kill my Mother. There must have been a reason behind it”. He noticed a tear trickle down Ian’s face.

“It’s such an honour,” he said. “To meet the son of a partisan. Peter was such a good man, and now he’s let me back in by sending me his son to give me back my dignity”.

Melissa edged closer, keeping both of them in shot. Ian didn’t look at her.

“What the hell was my Father into? Was he a member of a cult or something?”

“I was with him. I was with him but I never was infected. I was too scared”.

“Infected? Infected with what?”

“Don’t you see? Peter has sent you to help me finish what I never started. My fear stopped me, but not now. It cannot stop me now. Peter has forgiven me by giving you to me. We were meant to be infected together, and your father was. He took the life of the willing victim”.

“What?...hold on, are you saying my mother was involved? She wanted to be killed?”. “Absolutely. To die for the virus is an honour. Now that your father has absolved me, and let me back in, I hope to rectify my mistakes by taking the first step to redemption.” “Virus? Redemption? What the fuck?” More tears flowed down the man’s face. “Thank-you, Malcolm, for restoring my nobility and infecting me with your father’s inheritance. To send me you I cannot hope to repay my thanks and support. It is with honour and a sympathetic spirit that truly must be considered for there is the devotion of kindred essence within us that can be..”. He then stopped. No more tears flowed, and his face became stern and he stared with absolute abhorrence at Malcolm. He reached into his inside pocket.

“What do you..?” Malcolm asked.

“Malcolm look out!” shouted Melissa. Ian swiftly brought out a gleaming carving knife and swiped at Malcolm. Malcolm stepped quickly back. He turned and made to run, but looked at Melissa who was backing away quickly, staring in panic at Ian. Ian did not seem to notice her. He broke into a run, his eyes fixed on Malcolm. Malcolm turned and ran.

 

The man was fast. He advanced rapidly, but Malcolm kept the edge as they ran across the paved area of the pier-head. Malcolm gained around ten metres, looking around sporadically to see that Ian was still in pursuit, knife glinting. Without thinking straight, Malcolm dashed into a road. A bus screeched to a halt, the driver angrily banging the horn. He ran onto the pavement.

 

On the other side of the bus, a transit van appeared and slammed into Ian. It was a loud crack that made Malcolm stop and turn around. Ian was lying on his back about eight metres before the vehicle. The windshield was cracked. The driver walked across to Malcolm, his face one of despair.

“I’m sorry mate,” he said. “I’m sorry, he just came outta nowhere”. Melissa had caught