Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

know you’re going to die. The time it takes from realisation to impact is what you will feel walking into the marshes. On my command, you will stand up, pick up and wear the rucksack. This you will want to do, then you will leave my flat, and do what I said. Kill yourself in the quicksand. Before that, though, don’t think I’m going to leave you with the power of speech. You’re not going to cry for help along the way. You’re going to be mute. So have you anything final to say before you die?”

“Please, Curio, have you no mercy at all?” Curio could see fear on Malcolm’s face. “Well, I suppose I could make you want to go there, but when you see the marsh, or feel it, depending on how dark it is, you will become aware of what you’re doing, but you still won’t be able to speak, or scream, or stop yourself. You will perform my command. Now after I click my fingers, you will do what I have just said. Have you anything to say?” Malcolm thought for a few moments.

“You’re just a fucking psychopath”, Curio shook his head, and clicked his fingers.

Malcolm got up from the chair and stepped across to the rucksack. He shrugged it on. Curio stood up and walked into the hallway. He unlocked and opened the door. Malcolm walked past him towards the stairs. Curio watched him, then gently closed the door and walked back to look out of his window. After a few minutes, he saw Malcolm leave, walking into the darkness.

“Farewell, Malcolm,” he said, quietly.

 

A slight breeze had built up, and there were no stars in the sky, or moon to cast any form of light across the area. The only light came from street-lamps, and the occasional front window of a house. Malcolm knew exactly where he was going, focused as he was, on his task. He could still think as normal, but his goal had been incorporated into his psyche.

 

As far as he knew, it was something he wanted to do. It was his drive. Should he be prevented from completing it, then he would become like Ian and Kenneth, dying by repeatedly throwing themselves in the direction of their targets. Kenneth had been sedated at the university. He had been prevented from completing his task and awoke in a police cell. He had hurled himself at the cell wall in the direction where he thought his target laid.

 

Malcolm had no such hindrances. He walked along streets and roads, crossed over the A533, passing by the West bank dock estate. The air took on a more icy chill, ruffling his hair. When he reached a narrow road, ahead of him the darkness of the River Mersey, he saw that just ahead, there was the edge of a marsh. A street lamp nearby illuminated the area, bathing him in an orange hue as he passed by. His mind had reverted to what he would deem to be ‘normal’, but his body had its command, and took him onwards. What am I doing? he thought. No, No, stop. I’ve got to stop, but he walked onto the marsh, into the darkness. Quicksand lay metres before him at the water’s edge. Malcolm tried to yell, tried to shout, but Curio had taken that from him, and it was his mind that screamed. He began to stumble and stagger. The muddy waters went up to his knees, further as he trudged on.

 

Stop! his mind yelled. No! He fell, but clambered forward. The marsh blended into quicksand, and he was only four metres from the shoreline. He crawled into it and stopped, not through his own freewill. He couldn’t scramble, couldn’t attempt to get out. Fuck, no! his mind screamed, as he slowly sank beneath the surface. Soon, there was no trace of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

53

 

 

Curio lined up a golf club against a ball, resting on a tee, then swung it back. Striking it, he shielded his eyes against the sun as he watched it sail into the air, towards the eighteenth hole. Abe nodded, his driver resting against his shoulder.

“That was good,” he said, “right on the fairway”. Abe had brought two of his colleagues from the institute, and they had spent most of the day on the course. The press conference had been organised for the following day in London, at the ‘Wood Valley house hotel’.

 

An apartment had been organised for Curio, and he had packed his meagre belongings into three plastic bags. He had sold his computer and telephone at a second hand goods store, where they bought such equipment at low prices. They had given him £75 for the computer, and £5 for the telephone. Curio had accepted without protest. He had neglected to inform the DHSS of his change of location, deciding to simply leave. He was to spend one last night in the flat before being driven to the capital in the morning.

 

The other players each took their turn, and they all walked slowly along the fairway towards their next shots. Curio hid his nervousness well. He had taken a big gamble in the choice he had made. He hoped the public would not wish for a practical demonstration, instead hoping that the approval of the scientific community would suffice in their acceptance of his truth. He knew that there would be some people who would simply say: ‘Show me’.

He hoped he would never have to try and induce them. How he would do it, he did not know. He simply wanted to convince them of his beliefs. If people chose not to believe, then that would be fine. He wondered if the hypnosis could be done through television.

 

Could mass hypnosis be possible? He knew that should that work, and he was given the opportunity to do it, he would not. It was too risky, but even if there was no risk involved, he would still decline, as he wished for them to believe without persuasion, without inducement, but what to show the doubters, those people who do not believe until it is presented to them. Other than the scientists he had ‘persuaded’, he knew that other scientists would want to see the evidence, and the hole he had dug for himself through the choice he had made would undoubtedly widen.

 

Was Abe’s and his colleagues stature enough for them to simply say: ‘Curio has shown the truth of the supernatural. We believe’? He hoped it was. If they believed, then that would maybe be enough for other scientists to simply accept it as fact, on their authority.

What evidence to show the doubters, was a bridge he knew he would maybe have to cross one day, but for now, the announcement to the world by scientists that the paranormal had been scientifically proven was Curio’s step into the world of recognition, of infamy.

 

Through the success of managing to keep Malcolm and his friends away from his path to eminence, he hoped he could do it in the media spotlight despite the sceptics who could see no evidence. Still, he had his other fears as to the victims of his influencing, but the lure of recognition and wealth was too much for him to ignore. If he was to go down in history as the man who proved the supernatural, then at sometime he may have to face his victims. Perhaps Malcolm, Ian, all those he had helped along to see if there was an ‘other side’, would come back to haunt him. Would they try and possess him? He was after all, possessed at the farm. At least he believed he was.

 

Angry ghosts were real to him, but again, that was a risk he was willing to take. He also wondered that because the consciousness was altered under hypnosis, did it stay the same in the spirit world? If you died in a trance, or your mind passed over in a state of insanity, did you revert to being ‘normal’ on the other side? He could not answer that. He simply hoped that he would not be haunted, or possessed.

 

It was his shot, and he lined up the ball with a four-iron. He struck it, and shielded his eyes again against the sun that had no clouds to obscure it, and had decided to give out minimal heat. His ball landed in the rough, and he saw Abe smile as he lined up to take his shot. After a few more minutes, Curio was taking his third shot with a seven-iron. He swung the club and hit the ball, but took with it a clump of grass. It bounced and rolled onto the green. Abe nodded, as he lined up his own shot. His ball landed eight feet away from the hole.

 

Eventually, all players managed to get onto the green, and Curio found that he was nearest to the hole at four feet away. One of Abe’s colleagues took out the pole, and watched as Curio meticulously lined up his shot. After a few moments, he hit it. It slowed as it reached the hole, then fell inside. He smiled at the others and retrieved his ball. The eighteenth hole was on a high mound, and the hill sloped down towards the club car-park, beyond which was the club-house.

 

As Abe was lining up his shot, the main entrance door opened and he recognised the two people that came out. One of them stopped and waved up at him. Abe waved back. They made their way through the many vehicles to the slope. Abe took his shot. He missed. It rolled to an inch from the rim. He walked across and tapped it in. The other men took their shots, each getting the hole. The two men arrived onto the green. One of them, a man who looked to be in his early forties, bearing a ‘goatee’ beard and brown suit strode across to Abe and vigorously shook his hand.

“Good to see you Abe, it’s been a while. Who won?” he said, looking around.

“That’ll be me,” said one of Abe’s colleagues. He pointed at the other players in turn. “Second,” he said, pointing at Curio, “Third” he pointed at Abe. “Fourth,” he pointed at the other colleague, who seemed preoccupied with putting clubs back into his stand bag. The man nodded.

“Gerry,” said Abe, “this is Curio Enchantment,” he said, gesturing in his direction. Curio walked across and shook Gerry’s hand.

“Good to meet you,” said Curio.

“I’ve brought a fan along to meet you, Curio. Somebody who’s been wanting to meet you for a while”. Curio had hardly taken any notice of the man he had come with, stood as he was, on the edge of the green, staring at the floor like he didn’t know what to do, or say, rather like a stranger surrounded by people who know each other. It didn’t matter how many people you were surrounded with, if you didn’t know anybody, it could feel like the loneliest place on earth. Yet, he wasn’t exactly lonely, rather outcast, but subject to their scrutiny.

 

Curio saw that he was tall, and broad. He wore a white, sleeveless shirt, open to reveal a muscled body. His hair was cut short, and he wore black, pleated trousers with ankle boots. Curio thought that he somehow didn’t suit the clothes. He had tattoos along both arms and across his chest. Even from the distance of 15 metres, he could see that he had scars on his arms. Gerry waved for the man to walk across. He did so.

“Curio, this is Dominic Ribmour”. Curio then realised who it was, and he almost fitted his description of what he thought he would look like.

“Ribbet,” he said. Ribbet nodded, and shook his hand.

“He’s a reformed character, aren’t you Ribbet?” said Gerry, smiling up at him. Reformed character! thought Curio, a psycho who exhibits good behaviour, who is then allowed to walk amongst the public. He hoped