Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

animals.

 

If everything living had a soul, then once the physical shell can no longer sustain it, death occurs of the tissue, and can no longer be deemed to be living. The soul, life-force, or spirit, cannot die, as it is an energy. It converted into something else, and that something else is deemed to be inside the spirit world. That was according to Curio. He guessed that the deceased may be somewhere close, watching them like a guardian angel, waiting for their loved ones in the real world to join them, so they would be the first person they would see upon crossing over. Yet, with cats being cats, their loyalty to humans is never a strong point, so it was probably away cavorting with other cats, being chased by dogs and chasing mice, generally being the way it was in life.

 

Its personality, according to Curio, would stay the same, as with humans. If you were a happy go-lucky kind of person, then that’s what you’d be in the spirit world. It was the same if you were a cantankerous, greedy, miserable person, then that’s what you’d be in death. He had often wondered about people who died with their minds so bitter and twisted and disturbed, that perhaps that was the way they would be for eternity. If in life you were fairly ‘normal’ or sane, then should insanity take over the mind, then upon crossing over, does the psyche revert back to normality?

 

Curio didn’t know, and couldn’t begin to give any sort of answer, other than that of speculation. He was convinced they could communicate with the living, and a cat may provide good exercise, as he knew he was nowhere near good enough to do it professionally. His mind, he believed, was almost tuned into the spirit world, rather like static on a television screen. He hoped it would disappear in time, leaving a clear picture. As it was with his abilities, he could not call himself an expert, only an amateur, and he knew that all opportunities to practice the crafts were to be taken up.

 

He was silent for a few moments, his mind trying to tune in to the spirit world with the help of vibrations that he believed he could sense coming from the collar.

“He was a loving cat,” he said. Then he smiled. A white Angora cat came into his mind.

It was swiping at a feather trying to drift to the ground. Curio smiled.

“A playful cat”. The image then changed to the cat rubbing itself against somebody’s shin. He guessed it was Mrs Abercrombie. In the image, she crouched down and stroked him.

“Liked to be stroked”. Mrs Abercrombie snivelled.

“Yes, he did”. Curio then saw him playing with other cats in a field. The sun was shining and butterflies fluttered around.

 

These thoughts of the cat simply sprung into his mind, and he fell silent for a few moments more, contemplating as to whether or not this was real. It felt real. He decided that it was.

“I see him now,” he said, “Playing with other cats. He’s happy now, in what I can only describe as a paradise”. Mrs Abercrombie put her hands to her face, and more tears flowed. The image then faded away, and Curio opened his eyes.

“I saw him,” he said. “He was a white cat, wasn’t he? He was very caring”. Mrs Abercrombie seemed to produce a handkerchief from nowhere. She dabbed her eyes and stood up.

“Mr Enchantment, you were amazing. I can’t thank you enough”. She crossed to the mantle-piece and picked up a twenty pound note that had been behind an ornament of a golden eagle. She handed it to him.

“Take this as a thank-you”, she said. Curio just looked at it, surprised. He did not expect to be paid. The practice and experience would have been enough, but he took it.

“You don’t have to do that”, he said, feeling obliged to say it, and putting it into his pocket. He expected her reaction to be the one she gave:

“No, please, I insist”.

 

Out in the hallway, he put on his coat. Mrs Abercrombie opened the door. As he went to walk out, he noticed a framed photograph of an Angora cat on the wall.

“Was that him?” he asked. Mrs Abercrombie looked to the floor and nodded.

 

She bid him farewell, and Curio walked back through the darkened streets, trying to work out whether or not he had actually seen the real cat, or whether it had been concocted by his subconscious to meet with expectations. He had once heard a psychologist on the radio discussing why people are susceptible to believing strange things.

 

Most of what he had said, Curio had thought to be complete baloney. He was basically being sceptical about things paranormal. The man had said that when people try to contact dead people, try to speak with them, or ‘connect’, what is actually happening is the mind is believing at an abnormal rate the fact that there is a presence, so therefore the mind creates the conditions inside your own body to make you think that there is a ghost present.

 

You become cold, you may enter a trance-like state, and the subconscious creates images, that of which you were expecting. The part of the mind responsible for dreams is activated in consciousness.

 

Dreams cannot be predicted or controlled, and in a conscious state, is activated by belief and expectation. It feeds you with what you had already presumed. Sometimes belief is so real and powerful, that the mind projects images out into the real world, seen only by the believer, who sees what they had expected in the haunted house, and therefore, believe that they had seen a ghost which reinforces their convictions.

 

That becomes their proof, what they ‘know’. He had concluded by saying that people should stop believing in fantasies, and concentrate on what is already known, and is fact. Basically, add to existing knowledge. Of course, at the time, Curio had said loudly to the radio: ‘What? Restrict freedom of thought? Absolute load of bollocks’, and switched it off. The only seed of it that had remained was that of the part of the mind responsible for dreams. Was it really responsible for the images of the cat? No, it wasn’t he thought, because how then did he know that the cat was an Angora? He smiled. Yes, he thought, I’m improving.

 

The imposing, cold, faceless building where he lived, loomed above him, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to live there much longer. If his talent kept growing, he thought, then so will his reputation, and people may even, some day, see this as a tourist destination. He hoped that when he was long gone, into the spirit world, his fame will be so high that his flat will have been preserved. Perhaps there would be a plaque to him. ‘…and this is where he used to live before he became famous throughout the world’ a tour guide may say.

 

That thought gave Curio some comfort as he climbed the lightless stairs. He had never known the lift to work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14

 

 

“This is it” said Tom, pointing to a building, behind a fence, beyond a football pitch sized field, which was seemingly surrounded by construction materials and vehicles.

“Is that Ryvak?” said Anthony Kendrick, pulling the Alfa Romeo across onto the kerb. He stopped the car and they both looked at the building for a few moments.

 

Anthony was 24, five feet three inches, had a mousy appearance with a mop of curly hair. He wore a charcoal ribbed half zip neck sweater and stone cord bootcut jeans. Eventually, Tom said:

“I just had to see the place, had to know that what they are building there is going to close very soon”.

“Is that it then, shall we go? We don’t really need to see it do we, and, you know, do you really think it’s a good idea? What we’re doing”.

“Yes. It is, what ‘we’re’ doing. If you want out, then it won’t bother me, I can do it myself. To be quite honest, it doesn’t really need two at all, but you can hack into other databases while I concentrate on the main one.

 

Once I screw that up, then whatever you do won’t matter. It screws them up faster with two”. Anthony folded his arms and stared at the steering wheel.

“I don’t know, you know. It’s a bit risky”.

“Oh, really? And screwing the banks isn’t more risky? We’re not stealing money here.

 

We’re taking down a company that tortures animals. They won’t trace us. Do you know what type of prison sentence we’re in for if we’re caught? That’s ‘we’, me and you. We’re in this together. You know you can end it without being traced, but no, you’re quite happy to siphon off money from people’s accounts to pay for your posh cars and clothes.

 

Quite happy with that, aren’t you? But now you’re having second thoughts because you’re not getting anything out of it. Shall I tell you what I’m getting out of it?

 

Satisfaction, that’s what. Seeing those greedy bastards in there getting fucked, that’s what. I can do it on my own, bail out if you like.

 

As soon as I get home I’m starting it, I hope you will as well. Think of the animals”.

Anthony pulled away from the kerb.

“I’m in anyway aren’t I? If I’m caught then I’m in for a long jail term, so let’s do it”.

Tom smiled.

“Long jail term?” said Tom. “You can be the most psychopathic killer on the planet and get a light prison sentence, but if you steal money, then they’ll bring back the death penalty”.

They drove in silence for a while, and Anthony knew Tom’s mind was churning with possibilities and naivety. He changed the topic of conversation:

“I see that psychic detective has found another body by that remote viewing he does.

That’s four successes in a row. Doesn’t that tell you that there must be something in it?” Tom just looked at him for a few seconds, as though his thoughts were on pause. He shrugged.

“Coincidence, that’s what it is. You’re not going to bottle out of this are you?”

“What? no, not at all”.

 

Anthony drove Tom home, and promised to keep him updated as to his progress. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. As he drove homeward, his instinctive reactions switched to auto-pilot, enabling him to drive while his mind toiled with guilt and apprehension.

 

He thought it quite ironic that he had no guilt whatsoever in stealing from people’s bank accounts, keeping him constantly with a regular income. Tom and he both targeted separate banks, but here, they were both going to hack into Ryvak to put them out of business, and minor surges of adrenaline coursed through Anthony at the prospect of being caught. He quite liked animals, but to risk a prison sentence for them was, to him, absurd.

 

He knew it was hypocritical to basically steal from people’s accounts, but it was remote, faceless. He would feel more guilty if he was to steal from somebody’s purse or pocket, which if he was given the opportunity, would refuse. He would not lower himself to such a level. It was only Tom’s success and inducement that made him take the risk in the first place.

 

He would never have done it alone. Now though, his influence was leading him down a path where he did not want to go, where he would never have tread. He wondered how he could tell him that he didn’t want to do it. He always felt guilty saying no to people for fear of upsetting them. He’d lost count of how much he was owed by people, students who saw him as a cash-pot. ‘Lend’s a tenner, Ant, I need it to buy a lecky card. I’ll give it you back, ‘onest’. They’d look at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and Anthony would give in. ‘You’ll give it me back in a few days, ye?’.

‘a promise, Ant’. Days would turn to