Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

along the quiet pavement towards her house. It was 01:06am, and she had been at her friend’s house who had basically offered her emotional support, someone to talk to, someone to whom she could confide in. Stuart had once been the object of her affection, but her inhibitions had prevented her from making her feelings known. She had never told anybody that she had a burning candle for him. She couldn’t even bring herself to do that. She had hoped that by being around him, getting to know him better, he would eventually ask her out, but now he never would.

 

So other than Stuart’s kith and kin, she had been the most emotional, and had needed somebody to turn to. She had felt that she was outstaying her welcome, and rejected the offer to stay the night. Instead, she had decided to walk home through the deserted streets, to her parent’s council house, sandwiched between identical houses in identical roads. There was no gate, just a front step between the front door and pavement. She fumbled to get her keys out, and eventually let herself in. She closed the door quietly. Her parent’s would be fast asleep.

 

For some reason she could never understand, they always went to bed early. After five minutes, she was settled in front of the television, a steaming mug of cocoa curling steam in front of her face which was bathed in changing colours from the programme. It was the only form of light. She didn’t know why she had put it on. She wasn’t exactly watching it. There were two women arguing. It looked like a late night chat show. She had muted the sound.

 

After a few more minutes, her eyelids started to feel heavy, and tiredness began to tighten its unrelenting grip on her consciousness. Her eyes kept opening and closing for longer and longer seconds. She didn’t jolt when the front door banged. She did the second time. The third time, the door burst open and she never had time to look around as a large, overweight woman with straggly black hair, wearing a towelling robe strode in and looked at Jane who blinked up at her, trying to comprehend what had happened. She was not back to full consciousness.

“Are you Jane Fielding?” the woman asked, quite courteous.

“What?” asked Jane, sitting up straight. She was almost at full awareness.

“Are you Jane Fielding?” The intruder looked to be in her early fifties.

“Yes…who…are you?” A glint caught her eye, and she saw that the trespasser was holding a meat cleaver. The woman stepped directly in front of Jane, who squinted up at her.

 

Fear was a split-second away, as was full consciousness, then suddenly, a pain caught her on the cheek. The meat cleaver wedged into her jaw, splitting two of her teeth. A sharp tug wrenched it out, but before a scream left Jane’s mouth, her cheek-bone was cracked. The woman hacked away at Jane’s face and neck with a powerful, driving force. A scream tore from her throat, but the woman seemed not to notice. Instead, she gripped Jane’s hair in a strong grasp, and chopped at her neck. The woman’s face became soaked in crimson. It reflected the kaleidoscopic colours from the television. She could not scream anymore, but the woman continued to hack away, and when the cleaver wedged into her spine, she wrenched it free and stood there for a few moments staring down at her.

Satisfied, she stood up straight, and as she stepped across to the living room entrance, the hallway light came on. She walked out and saw a man and woman descending the stairs. A balding man with a bushy grey moustache, wearing a dressing gown stopped.

“What’s going on?” he asked. The woman pointed back towards the living room.

“I’ve just killed Jane,” she said, as though it was perfectly normal.

“She’s dead”. She then walked out.

“Who was that?” asked Jane’s mother. Mr Fielding shrugged.

“No idea,” he said.

 

The woman had almost walked a mile in her bare feet. The meat cleaver still dripped blood. She was three miles from home, so had decided to take a short cut across a field where Sunday league football was played. The grass was cold beneath her feet, and when she reached a goal mouth area, the ground had changed into congealed mud, and she stopped.

 

The orange glow of the town around her blended into an ultramarine sky, dotted with stars. She was surrounded by darkness, and looked down at the cleaver in her right hand. She couldn’t see it. Not even when she sent it into her neck. She hacked away, tearing a vicious rent, blood pumping out, splashing onto the mud. Even as she began to become light-headed, and weak, she still tried to lift the cleaver, but eventually couldn’t. It dropped to the ground, and she followed two seconds later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

47

 

 

Curio was pacing around his flat, nervously. It was midday, and sunlight angled in through the window. He had washed his cups and plates, ordered and folded his clothes neatly, but none of it could take his mind off the fact that in twenty minutes time, he would be live on radio. It was a national station, ‘Audiowave fm’ and he had received a phone call from the presenter of ‘Discussion time’, to be one half of an issue, or subject. Normally, psychics of Curio’s stature would not have been invited or pondered for such a show. Only those most famous in their field would have been sought.

 

Despite Curio’s successes in his pursuit of fame, he was not the most well known psychic, but ‘Abe’, the only person Curio knew to be sceptical about his claims, was a biomedical scientist and with the topic being: ‘Psychic communication: true or false’, it was Abe who recommended Curio to represent true. He was asked if he wished to participate, and had leapt at the chance. It was an opportunity to ‘speak to the nation’ about his beliefs and truths, and show up and embarrass Abe, live on air.

 

They were going to ring him at 12:30, and he was surprised at how nervous he was. He couldn’t eat, and had only drank a glass of water. He tried to watch television, but failed. He thought about putting on his computer, but decided against it. Instead, he paced around his flat trying to think of certain points that he would like to raise.

Checking his watch, and then sitting down on the sofa, the telephone began to ring, and he leapt up and rushed across to pick it up.

“Hello,” he said, “Leigh Somerton?”.

“Yes, that’s right. Curio Enchantment, you’re live on air. I’m also here with ‘Abe’, a biomedical scientist with an interest in the supernatural. He is a sceptic, and debunks claims made by those, like Curio, who declare themselves to have certain powers, or gifts, that can be deemed paranormal. They represent both ends of the spectrum.

 

Now, Curio, it is a fact that you have discovered the whereabouts of five missing persons in a row. That must surely be some indication of a gift”.

“Indication?” said Curio, “I think that should I have failures in all other aspects of paranormal activity, then that very fact alone is sufficient to prove that there is something out there that cannot be readily explained”.

“Yes,” said Abe. “Science has its mysteries. It cannot explain everything. When I say everything, I mean, ‘everything’. From the initial spark that brought the earth into being, to the atomic fabric of matter in the furthest place you can imagine. The fact that you

have discovered the whereabouts of five missing persons…”

“I’ll admit to having got a few wrong,” interjected Curio, “but the five previous have all been successful”. Abe sounded like a person who could easily have been a drama teacher. Each word was pronounced with absolute clarity. He would pause for just the right length, and his voice varied in inflections, but kept balanced. He sounded as though he was in his late fifties.

“Your success borders on the fringe of chance. It is possible to roll a die infinitely and get the same number every time. However, it cannot be related to this, but I assume you see the similarity. Should you get eight or nine successes, or ‘hits’, then, Mr Enchantment, I shall be impressed”.

“I have other accomplishments as well. I have a direct link to the spirit world, and can convey information…”

“You’re a medium, yes. You can ‘talk’ to the dead. Or they talk to you”.

“Well…yes, they do, but only when I get in contact, or open the door. There are not many who can commune. It is difficult to practice, to actually communicate with the other side, which is why not everybody can do it. If it was easy, then we would all be doing it, trying to contact our loved ones to make sure that they were fine, and were, I suppose, happy.”

“That’s why it’s popular isn’t it? That’s why people give their money to you, and other psychics, because you offer them hope.

 

Your successes in that field come from latching onto the hits, and ignoring the misses. Strange how a lot of people ignore the misses, because chances are you would score a hit anyway if you use cold reading techniques. If you latch onto this, and convert it to evidence of the spirit world, or to the fact that the deceased are communicating with you, then those susceptible to believe easily will accept everything you say.

 

Give out many names to a person, and on the eighth, it may have some meaning. ‘Yes, that was the name of my uncle’. Then you will discuss this uncle, and ignore the other seven names. This is not evidence of the supernatural, Curio”.

“There are many documented cases where there are things said that are just impossible to ignore, that could not be obtained any other way than by through the conveyance of information through a spirit”.

“Documented cases? Written by whom? The practitioners? The witnesses? It could be second and third, or seventeenth hand information, and because it is written down, does not make it true. They may very well be documented, and it sounds quite good, doesn’t it, ‘documented’. It almost makes what you say to be correct. Well, unless it has undergone rigorous testing by scientific methods, then any documentation may as well be written in sand”.

“Look, I know the spirit world exists”.

“No you don’t. You don’t ‘know’. You believe. People confuse knowing with believing. They believe enough and it becomes a fact, but only for them. If enough people believe the same thing then you have an order, or maybe a cult”.

“If a lot of people believe in the same thing, then surely that must give it some credence. There must be some truth in it. Look at aliens. How many believe in them?”

“I suspect a fair few. Observational evidence is crucial to the discovery of new data. Experimentation is repeated over and over again, and if the same result occurs every time, then we have scientific fact.

 

Evidence regarding aliens is the same as it is for ghosts and astrology. It is scant, and what evidence you do have can be explained easily, leaving you with nothing. If you eliminate all other explanations as to what something could be, let’s say for instance an apparition, or ghost. If you have conceived of every possibility as to what it could be, but are left with only one, then that one will be your ghost. The thing is though, it would have to go through rigorous scientific testing to pass the test, and be left with only one explanation, and on the day that happens, I’ll be round at your house Curio, to say I’m sorry, and you were right. There is no evidence for the spirit world. No evidence for aliens, no evidence for astrology, and no evidence for many other things you call paranormal. All of it can be explained logically, but