Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

tried to kill you, you say?” asked Curio. Malcolm nodded emphatically.

“He was going on about some virus, and how Peter sent me to him so he can redeem himself or something. Then he just took out a knife and tried to kill me. Watch, you’ll see it here”. He gestured to the television.

“Is this the same tape used at the farm?” asked Curio.

“Yes,” said Melissa, nodding, but not turning to look at him. She was too engrossed in getting the right place on the tape.

“Let’s see it from the start,” said Curio, “At the farm”.

“Okay,” said Melissa, and rewound the tape.

 

Melissa sat on the other side of the sofa to Curio, and all was quiet until the screen came on. Melissa smiled coyly when she appeared, and Curio smiled complacently when he delivered his talk on spirits.

“I think you’re right,” said Melissa, nodding as Curio continued to speak.

Soon, Curio watched the screen with fear as he saw himself become possessed.

“I do apologise for going home after that, but it was quite traumatic, being possessed. I’ll admit, it was the first time that has happened to me”, he said, still watching the screen. Melissa and Malcolm looked across at each other, Malcolm with a look of reservation, Melissa with a look of concern due to her lack of understanding of possession, but willing to fear it, because she was sure it happened, and did not doubt what she did not understand. Curio was dealing with forces that held a certain mystique for her, and plenty of fear. She, like thousands of other people, feared the unknown.

 

The room was silent. The video cut to Curio’s reading at the university, followed by Melissa at the pier-head, then Malcolm’s approach to Ian. It soon cut to Ian banging at the side of the van, then cut off. Malcolm gestured to the screen. Melissa knelt down and switched off the camcorder and television.

“See?” he said. “He was involved in whatever it is with my dad, so you see why I need you to speak with him again to understand just what the f...just what’s going on”. Curio leaned forward.

“I must say I am quite reluctant to call upon your father again. Whatever he was involved with,” he gestured to the blank screen. “It’s obvious he was involved in some kind of sect. Your father sent you to him to be his sacrifice by the looks of things. I do not want to involve myself with forces that not even I understand. You saw what happened to me at the farm. I am subjecting myself to certain energies that have the potential to be very dangerous. What you ask of me is very precarious, Malcolm”. Malcolm reached into his pocket and pulled out fifty pounds in cash. He handed it to him, and Curio just stared at it.

“Please,” said Malcolm. “One more time”.

“I take it by this you are no longer a sceptic?”

“Sceptical of some things, I suppose, but not sceptical enough to not hand my money over”. Curio sighed, then took the money.

“Very well, I need a personal object of his”. Melissa pointed to the armchair where Malcolm was sitting.

“Was that his chair? Did he sit in that often? That would make a good object, wouldn’t it?”. Malcolm nodded and stood up.

“Yes, this is where he sat mostly”. Curio looked at it apprehensively. He tried not to think of the farm.

 

Standing up, he stepped across to it, and reluctantly sat down. He rested back, and closed his eyes. Malcolm and Melissa both sat on the sofa and looked at each other with concern. They then watched Curio.

“Peter Selden,” he said, “Are you there? I need to speak with you. I have here your son, Malcolm. He wishes to speak further”. All was silent for a few moments, and Curio began to twitch, as though he was having a vivid dream.

“I can see you,” he said. “Malcolm wishes for more answers as to what you were involved with”. He twitched more intently, and then stopped, and slowly opened his eyes. “Peter does not wish to speak with you,” he said. “He is saddened that you did not sacrifice yourself to Ian, and therefore is remaining quiet. He left, telling me to convey that information. That is all I can do, and as far as I am willing to go on this”. He then stood up. They walked out into the hall where Curio put on his coat.

“That’s it?” said Malcolm, “he’s not speaking to me?” He ran his hand through his hair. “Now what?” he continued. “Now where do I go? You were my last hope”. Curio shook his head.

“I am sure there are other psychics who will be willing to help, but I hope you would be decent enough to let them know just what kind of forces they are dealing with. I will admit, I am not competent enough to handle such energy.

 

Don’t forget, everything in this world has its opposite. If there are forces for good, then logically there are forces for bad, and the inkling I get from your father is most certainly bad. Please do not ring me again, Malcolm, I will not do it again for any price”. He opened the door and walked out, giving a curt wave at the gate before walking around a curve in the road. Melissa then appeared at the door with her camcorder and coat.

“I suppose I’d better be going,” she said, “See you again. Come up to my class and let me know if anything develops from this, I mean…” she held up the camcorder bag. “Can I still do further follow-up for the project?” Malcolm stared at the bag for a few seconds, then nodded.

“Ok,” he said, quietly. Melissa left, and Malcolm closed the door gently. He walked slowly up the stairs and went into his parent’s bedroom. He grabbed the picture of his father and threw it to the floor. He then turned to walk out of the room, but then stopped and frowned. He walked back and stood looking down at the photograph.

“How hard can it be?” he said, quietly, picking it up. He walked around and sat on the side of the bed where his father had slept, and laid the picture down. He breathed in slowly, and closed his eyes. With one hand touching the pillow, the other at the side of his head, it was a few seconds before he spoke:

“Dad, can you hear me? I need answers. Show me you’re here. Show me that you can hear me?” There was a moments silence. Outside, a car drove past, and a dog barked, but his mind remained blank. No image, or feeling came to him, yet, he got the impression that somebody was standing close-by, simply watching him.

 

He wondered if it was his father, refusing to acknowledge him, or maybe it was simply his mind wanting to believe that an entity was there. If he absolutely did not believe in the supernatural, then maybe the inkling or sense would not be there. Perhaps it was testament to his increasing willingness to believe that life after death was a likely possibility. Still, he slowly opened his eyes, and did not believe that his father was there.

 

The feeling remained, and he wondered if it was a kind of delayed reaction to the fact that both his parents were dead. His emotions had been trapped within him, his tears converted into despair, into a longing for answers. When that plug had been pulled out, had been satisfied, maybe then he could grieve properly, could cry at their graveside, but if he knew that they were safe and happy in another place, that wherever they were, it was good, then there would be no need for tears. Not even any need for sympathy. Perhaps it was not knowing what happened to a person after death that sent people to psychics in a vain hope that they could speak with the deceased again, that they could tell them they were happy. Maybe all they wanted to know was that they were somewhere else, not consigned to a state of oblivion, of absolute nothingness. No consciousness, no coma-like dormancy, no dreams. Nothing. They had travelled to another place, and they were blissful there. If only they could tell them that, then maybe there would be no need for grief.

 

Malcolm was fairly sure that death was not the end. There was ‘something’, and he was sure that Curio had tapped into it. No mental image, or feeling told him that his father was not going to acknowledge his presence, if he was even there at all. It did not hinder Malcolm’s belief that science did not hold all the answers.

He picked up the picture, stood up, threw it at the floor again, and with both fists clenched, stamped on the glass, shattering it.

“Fucker!” he shouted, and walked out of the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

37

 

 

He felt like a murderer surveying the scene of his crime, pushing his way through a crowd to see what was happening. ‘What happened here? What’s going on?’. Except

Tom had committed no homicide, and there were no crowds. He was sat in his Maserati 3200 FH, parked on the other side of the road from the main gate into Ryvak. The building was huge and imposing, even at sixty metres away from its entrance.

 

It was the only domineering aspect of the place. He did not know what was going on inside, but he was sure that work had stopped. He saw what looked to be removal vans in the courtyard, and people walking to and fro. Building equipment was still scattered around, but nobody was using it. There didn’t seem to be any security at the gate, which itself was wide open.

 

Tom had decided to risk driving here, and parked in such a place as to survey the damage he had caused. There were a few cars parked along the side of the road where he was, so another one would not cause any suspicion, as he was quite convinced that the security guard that had chased him would not recognise him, if he was here, but he had parked there just in case. His windows were tinted, but he had risked taking down his side window halfway. He just had to see the place up close, had to watch as it metaphorically collapsed in on itself.

 

In his pocket, he had another print out of another email that had brought him here. It was from the same source:

‘It is with regret that I have to inform you of our current situation. At the present rate, we are unable to sustain employees despite cut-backs. We are therefore in no other position than to cease functioning of our Landican branch. I will inform you of further developments and advise you as and when of the procedures necessary in due course. As of today, Ryvak will close”.

“Ryvak will close,” Tom said, smiling. He nodded. “Fucking right it will”. Cars and vans came and went through the gates, and he was optimistic that none of it was to do with keeping it open. He hoped that the ones leaving were employees, whose next stop was the job-centre.

 

He pressed the button for the window to close, and it hissed upwards. He started the engine, then gave a brief wave to the place as he U-turned.

“Sayonara,” he said, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. As he drove with one hand, he rang Anthony, who was standing outside a take-away, eating a fish cake, waiting for Stuart Harper. He answered it.

“Hi Tom,” he said, “What have you been up to now?”.

“It’s closed,” he said cheerfully. “Ryvak is no longer functioning. Here, I’ll read the email”. The phone went silent for a few moments, and Anthony heard ruffling and distant traffic. He came back on.

“Here we are,” he said, and read out the email, while Anthony closed his eyes and faced the floor.

“Great,” he said,