Notorious by John Jones (novel books to read txt) 📕

home, as it was only three miles away. As he did, he found himself passing by his old university, where his academic aspirations nearly came to fruition.

 

He had wanted to be a doctor, and had managed four years until he realised that he did not have the audacity to see it through. From there he had found himself in various jobs that were not exactly brain taxing. At that time he had had many friends, mostly from university with medical ambitions, and his social circle could have been seemed to be normal.

 

When he found that he had ‘the gift’, that he could commune with spirits, could hear voices in his head, he found that the telephone had rang less and less. They’re far too busy, was Curio’s delusion, and to this day he believed that.

 

Further towards his home, he passed by a library, and decided to do some further reading up on the paranormal. It wasn’t long before he was sat reading about ancient astronauts.

7

 

He was drunk, but he didn’t care. Redundancy was hanging over his head like a grey cloud, and he found himself more and more at his local pub than at home with his wife. He was 43, and worked at a vehicle manufacturer whom he knew was having financial difficulties. He also knew that should it get any worse, he would be one of the first out of the door and into the dole queue. Today wasn’t much better.

 

He’d been told what he already knew, that there was a possibility he might lose his job. It was basically affirming his beliefs, but he wasn’t alone. The trade union wouldn’t take this lying down. He guessed that at some point there would be a strike, and he would join the picket line, but until then, he drowned his sorrows with some of his other workmates who were in the same boat.

 

David Morley was the type of person who couldn’t work out their levels of intoxication, and always ended up drunk, but thought they were ‘fine’, when his colleagues knew exactly that he wasn’t. He had spent more time looking at the bottom of a pint glass, now that the cloud above him didn’t show any signs of leaving. He had started to occupy the same place in the pub, and was certainly a regular face. He knew it wouldn’t be long before all the bar staff would simply say: ‘Usual Dave?’

 

He downed the last of his lager and put it down on a cardboard coaster. He nodded, more to himself than his colleagues.

“OK, time for me to go,” he said. He mimed a talking puppet with his right hand against his ear.

“Yak yak yak, that’s all I’ll get now off the missus. Where’ve you been? How much ‘av yer spent?”. He sighed a sigh of despair and he looked longingly at the empty glass, wishing it would refill so he could put off going home, but he knew he had to get it over with, so stood up, put on his coat, and bid farewell to his friends whom he knew would stay for that extra pint.

 

A biting wind met him when he stepped out onto the pavement. There were not many street lamps, and he was bathed in the light from the pub windows behind him. Besides these lights, the village was gloomy and quiet, and David set off towards his house, feeling the effects of inebriation which desensitised him to the cold, but meant he had to take it slow.

 

He’d done it before, but it didn’t get any easier. His jagged sauntering eventually led him along his garden path. He fumbled with his key for a few moments, and was soon stepping into the hallway. He closed the door and stood there, trying to focus, trying to keep his composure. He took off his coat and hung it up beneath the stairs. He walked into the living room and saw his wife standing in front of the unlit coal fire. “I know what yer gonna say,” he said to her, “but I didn’t spend too much”. Sheila Morley turned and looked at him. She grabbed a bread knife which had been on the mantle-piece. She said nothing, instead walked across to him and stabbed him in the neck. David tried to yell but it came out as a gurgle. She sent the knife again and again into his neck, and then turned the blade around and started stabbing his chest. She made no sound as she repeatedly plunged the blade into him. He collapsed back, crashing the door shut.

 

Still she would not stop. She kept stabbing until his chest and neck became a bloody pulp. After a few minutes, she stepped back, blood soaking the carpet, door and wall, and looked at him to see if there was any signs of life. There wasn’t. He was dead. Her face and front dripped crimson, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care. Dropping the blade, she grabbed his hair and pulled him around so she could drag him. It was too difficult. Instead, she pulled him by his mouth, her hand over the upper teeth. It was tough, but she was physically capable, and had prepared the pathway to the garden earlier. Just as the knife had been specially placed, so had the spade. She dragged him onto the grass, then began digging.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8

 

 

The house was silent. The police had gone, and Malcolm guessed that they would not return. He was stood in the living room. It was as it was before his father decided he didn’t want his mother around. It was normal. Television. DVD, Hi-fi, a few newspapers. A few clothes over the back of the sofa. Paraphernalia covered the mantle-piece. Bills, circulars, notes, a few coins. The rest of the house was similar. Normal.

 

He collapsed onto an armchair and closed his eyes. Bang goes uni work, he thought. Aspirations on becoming a software engineer would have to wait. He had a 3000 word essay to write on ‘File formats and extensions’, before Thursday, in two days time. He hadn’t written a word, hadn’t given it a thought, and knew he wouldn’t. He just had to know what drove his mild-mannered father to murder his mother. He could not concentrate on anything else.

 

He got up and was about to walk into the kitchen when his mobile phone rang. It was in his coat in the hall, and he hurried quickly to find it. Eventually he flipped it open. It read: Anonymous call.

“Hello,” he said. “Who this?”.

“Malcolm, this is Sergeant Drake. I’m ringing with regards to your father”. He paused for a few moments, waiting for Malcolm’s acknowledgement.

“OK,” he prompted.

“I’m afraid he’s dead. He committed suicide this morning”. The news didn’t need time to sink in. He threw the phone at the wall.

“Fuck!” he shouted. He leaned with his forehead resting on his arm against the wall, breathing fast and unevenly. His eyes were as tightly closed as they could possibly be. No comprehensible question would stay in his mind for longer than an instant, but all of them indicated confusion. All wanted answers he could not give. After a while, his eyes red and watered, he picked up the mobile and found that it was still working. He rang Tom Parker, who answered after two rings.

“Tom, I need a fucking drink,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9

 

 

It was late evening. The sky was veiled in darkness, the streets bathed in orange. Curio’s face was cast in blue and white from a monitor on his desk, six feet away from his living room window. Whenever he used his computer of a night, he always kept the light off. The only light would come from the screen. It wasn’t a top of the range model. It was four years old, and had an internet connection.

 

It was paid for back when he had a job as a customer services assistant at an electrical goods store and could afford such items. He had never understood why they cost so much. They had their benefits, obviously, and used correctly, they could yield great rewards. However, Curio had paid £599 for his now outdated model, and found that, as with most computers, he sometimes wanted to throw it through the window. It would sometimes crash. The screen would freeze.

 

His mouse pointer would not click on anything, and he sometimes found himself having to switch it off at the mains. They were precarious, unstable, and downright expensive. It was however, a central point of Curio’s world. He had been musing over writing a book to put down his evidence for the existence of paranormal reality, but he knew that before he could even start, he would have to gather a lot more evidence.

 

For now, one of the main reasons he had acquired the internet, was for emails and the use of forums. He could connect with many other believers, and could save their postings. There were many others out there with ‘gifts’. Curio wondered that because of his talents, he should practise all areas of the supernatural. The others in cyberspace had talents in certain areas.

 

Curio was convinced he could have it all. Max, in Texas, could read animal’s minds.

Phabio, in Berlin could foretell the future just by staring at cloud formations. Jazz, in Argentina could become possessed by any human that had died since the apes walked upright. Miko, in Singapore could telepathically talk to aliens. Their evidence, to Curio was compelling, and their stories, with their permission, would be used in his book.

 

He checked his email, and found he had four new messages. Two were from Africa. Somebody urgently needed a correspondent in the UK and could they help them. They were obviously cons, and he deleted them without hesitation. One was from a newsletter he had signed up to: ‘Uncanny kingdoms’. It gathered together and documented actual evidence, actual according to the writers on the site, of paranormal activity. Curio had signed up instantly. They had a forum, and Curio had signed up as himself. There was no need to hide behind a moniker, like a lot of others he had come across. Be yourself, he had thought, not Beefluvva69, or Twisted Sinna. Or Red-eye.

 

It was all very well feeling a sense of anonymity, and he knew why people did it. It was for that reason. They hid behind obscure names and gave out abuse across the network because nobody knew who they were. They could sit in their little hovels, tapping away at the keyboard, clicking ‘Send’ every two minutes, saying anything they liked, to anybody who had left messages. There was a lot of weirdo’s out there, Curio had found, and their posts, and the way they were written told him more about the person, than what they meant to say.

 

What would the moniker ‘Angel eyes’, say about that person? Probably a woman, maybe she thinks she is attractive. All in all, she may be half decent, a bit egotistical, but normal. Whereas ‘Spunkmonkey’, meant that that person didn’t take themselves too seriously, was probably the ‘crazy one’ in his social circle. If he had one. Yet, would be second choice to meet over ‘Angel eyes’.

 

All signatures were like that, let a part of the real personality of that person through, albeit, slight, but still significant in understanding a person. Curio, the previous week had posted up a question on the forum: ‘Does anybody out there have any real experiences of regression or reincarnation? Who were you in a past life? I might use it in a proposed book. Post here, or email me at [email protected] Thanks, Curio’.

Since he had checked yesterday, other than the 14 replies he had, he saw that there were 3 more, unread. The others were all positive, and usable as evidence. Before he read those, he opened up the email he hadn’t read:

 

‘Dear Curio,

As a fan of yours, I was