Notorious, John Jones [best ebook pdf reader android txt] 📗

in your world Curio, logic doesn’t exist, does it?”.

“You still haven’t told me why if many people believe a certain thing, there must be truth in it”.

“There doesn’t have to be evidence for people to believe something. If I told you at the age of five, that there was an albino koala bear, living in a cave, on the other side of the moon, then with such an impressionable mind, chances are you would believe it. You would not have the maturity to question. You would believe it. Told by an adult, a child has no reason, or I suppose, the facility to doubt.

 

If this is then reinforced by other adults, ‘Yes, the koala exists, there is no doubt, look, it says here,’ then during the lifetime of that person, who believed absolutely, without seeing the koala, going purely on belief, they devoted themselves to the koala in some way, and the devotee was actually taken to the moon to meet the koala, and was shown that it didn’t exist, that there was the proof, ‘look, it’s not here, you can see for yourself’. Can you imagine what that would do to a person who had devoted his whole life to it?

 

There are two possibilities. One would be that they would just say: ‘Okay, fair enough, that’s that’. The other would be for them to live in denial. With the power of belief so strong, they may still believe in the koala, and make excuses as to why it wasn’t there, but still come away believing. This could be applied to you Curio. I think you are in denial about your ‘gift’. You may be receptive to hearing voices, but these voices come from your own belief that they come from the deceased. It is your own subconscious, deluding your belief”.

“So that’s it, then?” said Curio. “No life after death, no aliens. How can you ignore the evidence when it’s right in front of you? Don’t forget, many scientists believe in the afterlife”.

“I suspect they do, but those people cannot really call themselves scientists. Believers in the paranormal would love it to be proven scientifically, which is why they use it so often, to make it sound authentic. All your so-called evidence, or arguments for, are built on quicksand. Investigated properly, they fall down. Why do you think psychics and people who involve themselves in some way with the supernatural are so reluctant to be tested scientifically?” He paused long enough to continue speaking without Curio answering.

“They’re scared. While they have absolute belief in their abilities, they’re scared in case all their beliefs are shattered. How about you Curio? Do you believe enough in your ability to have it scientifically tested?”

“Well…yes, I would”.

“Then how about it? Come to London, to the research centre where I work, and subject yourself. Prove to me, and to others, that you have a gift, Curio. Are you up for the challenge?”. The airwaves were silent for six seconds.

“How about it Curio?” said Leigh. “Thousands of listeners. No pressure”.

“I believe in my ability,” Curio said. “Challenge accepted”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

48

 

 

In the car-park of the halls of residence, Adam Leonard pulled up in his second hand Citroen Saxo VTR, and took out his sports bag. He locked it and walked through an archway, up a flight of stone steps and along to his apartment where his girlfriend, Danielle Alden, was standing outside, looking anxious. She saw him and came rushing across.

“Adam! Adam! You’ve arrived,” she said as a statement. Her face was flushed with scarlet. It looked as though she had been crying.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he said, grabbing both her hands.

“I know it’s upsetting,” he continued. “Stuart was a good friend. I’m sorry he’s gone, but...hey, look at this. I got something to show you”. He set about revealing his right upper arm.

“Adam, there’s a man in our flat”.

“Look,” he said, showing her his new tattoo. The arm was reddened, the image three by five inches on the skin. It was of a dagger, wrapped around by a serpent, which in turn was wrapped by a ribbon. On that ribbon, the words: ‘Danielle forever’ were inscribed.

He frowned and looked at her sternly.

“What did you just say? There’s someone in our flat? Who? What are they doing there?” A tear trickled down Danielle’s face.

“He…he knocked. I opened the door, he asked for you. I said you weren’t in, so he just pushes in and goes into the living room and stands there. I tried to ask him what he was doing, and all he said was: ‘waiting for Adam’, that’s it. I asked him again and he said the same thing. I left, then. I didn’t like to say any more. He looks like one ‘o them rough types, so I got out of there. That was ten minutes ago. What are we going to do?”

“Have you called the police?” She shook her head.

“No, my phone’s in there. I’m not going back in to get it while he’s there. I was waiting for you as I knew you were due home now. Maybe you know him or something”. He took from his pocket his mobile phone and gave it to her.

“I think you should ring them”. He then walked to the flat entrance.

“I’ll sort this. Actually don’t call the police yet. It might not be necessary”. He then turned and walked inside the flat. Danielle stared at the contraption, at her passport photograph as his wallpaper. She looked in fear at the doorway.

 

Adam walked into the front room and was confronted by a scruffy individual who looked like he slept rough, but was not quite scruffy enough to be labelled a vagabond, or drifter. He wore a cream jacket, and well-worn jeans. His hair was short, black and wiry. He looked like the type of person whom on first sight could be judged to be completely untrustworthy, and somebody whose life revolved around being on the other side of the law. The first impression of such a person could simply be: ‘criminal’. It was he who spoke before Adam. “Are you Adam Leonard?”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“Are you Adam Leonard?”

“Yes. Now who are you and what are you doing..?” The man raised his right hand, and Adam saw that it held a gun. For one whole second, only the whites of the man’s eyes were visible. He fired the PPK Calibre 9mm, and the bullet entered above Adam’s left eye. It lodged in his brain. The man fired again, shattering his teeth. Adam was propelled back, collapsing back into the hallway. The intruder walked across to him and levelled the gun four inches from between his eyes.

 

He fired, the bullet splitting his cranium apart. He fired again, and kept on firing. Adam’s head collapsed across the carpet, and the man kept pulling the trigger, even when all the bullets were spent. He looked at the gun as though there should be more ammunition, and then at the glistening mass of flesh and bone. He stood, then turned and left the flat. He walked past Danielle, not giving her a glance.

 

She nervously looked at the man as he left, trembling as though she was out in freezing cold. Edging her way to the doorway, she was about to call for Adam, but saw him lying in the hallway. She first noticed his tattoo, which now had lost all meaning, then saw his head.

Two hundred metres away, a student wearing an old-fashioned cassette walkman heard her scream.

 

The man walked along pavements and across roads in the direction of his sister’s house where he had promised to be earlier. He checked his watch and saw that he was 25 minutes late. She was usually accepting of him when he was late, and he knew that she didn’t like it, but rarely said anything. He did not like to disappoint, and never had a reputation for poor time-keeping, but this time she may give voice to her opinion. He speeded up. Passers-by looked at him with surprise as they saw his face and jacket spattered with blood, as well as the fact that he still openly carried the gun.

 

As he neared a telephone box outside of a wine bar, he stopped and looked down at the weapon. There were two people waiting to use the telephone, and a couple standing outside the entrance to the bar. They looked like they were deciding whether or not to go in. He put the gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. It simply clicked, and he frowned at it, then dropped it. His breathing grew more rapid and he looked around, panic increasing.

 

The other people were all staring at him with apprehension. He placed one hand on the back of his head, the other on his jaw. He forcefully tried to snap his neck, but it didn’t work. He tried again, but failed. He grabbed his throat and squeezed as tightly as he could. His face gradually began to turn blue and his eyes bulged, but a forceful cough released his grip and he looked frantically around again. He was beginning to tremble.

 

Near the entrance to the wine bar, somebody had left half a pint of lager. He strode across to it, leaned down and tipped it on its side and then stood on it. The glass broke easily, and he picked up the base and had no hesitation in sending it into his neck. The glass carved easily through his veins, and he repeatedly stabbed until half of his hand went into his neck on each successive strike. People screamed and ran, but he did not notice. Blood showered the pavement, and when he no longer had the strength to lift his arm, when no more blood reached his brain, he collapsed forward into a carpet of crimson.

49

 

From Tom's bedroom, Malcolm looked out anxiously behind a net curtain as Tom pulled up in the driveway. At the first opportunity, he had called the police, who had said they would look into it. So far, he had heard nothing in reply. He guessed it was too early. “You alright love?” asked Tom's mother, looking around the door and smiling. She didn't wait for an answer before walking out along the hallway.

“No, I'm not,” he said, quietly. He could hear Tom as he entered the house. His mother walked down the stairs. He could hear them talking, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Tom came up the stairs and into the room.

“I think you can relax, you know, they shouldn't know you are here. You can stay the night again if you like, or until you get yourself back to normal”.

“Normal? People are trying to kill me. The only way I can see to understand why and maybe get them to stop, is by if I get Curio to get in contact with my dad again, or Ian, or maybe my mother”.

“Well, don't worry about that,” said Tom. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Malcolm.

“Five hundred quid,” he said.

“Seriously?” said Malcolm. Tom nodded.

“Thanks. You don't know what this means to me. I appreciate it, really. Thanks”.

“No problem. There's no rush to pay me back. I know you're a poor student. Maybe you can pay me back with five hundred quids worth of favours or something. Do my coursework and make sure I pass,” he said with a slight grin, a