Notorious

by John Jones

NOTORIOUS

By

John Jones

TICKTOCK, TICKTOCK, DOWN THE COUNTDOWN GOES.

1

Her cold, dead eyes stared up at the night sky, and the men who stood looking down at her stopped digging. They had found what they had sought. Detective Inspector Edward Stanton smiled a humourless smile. He had found the woman after five months of fruitless searching, of wild goose chases and roads to nowhere. Here she was, decaying in a shallow grave, the method of murder as yet unknown, but murder he suspected it was. One of the men pointed a flashlight at her face, making it startlingly white. He could see marks around her neck, and he was confident that she had been strangled. He walked to the edge of the path that led into Hale bank, South Liverpool and got into his vehicle. It was 11:04pm. There was no moon in the sky. The rough trail cut through sloping fields until it eventually wound its way to a Mersey river bank nature reserve. It was popular with joggers and bikers. Around ten metres from the path, beneath an over hanging oak tree, the womans body had been found. With her husband being a suspect, now seemed like a good enough time as any to go and see him. He had been questioned many times while she had been missing, all the time protesting his innocence. As the house was only a ten minute drive away, he realised that his instant decision to confront the husband was taking a risk on his own. Yet, the man was not exactly Mr Universe, but he was capable, however, of strangling his wife. In the times Edward had seen him, not once had he been violent. In fact, if he was innocent, he would probably burst into tears, and that was something he could do without, being a shoulder to cry on and a tea-maker. It had to be done, though, and he wanted to get it over with.
He pulled up outside the semi-detached, and saw that somebody was home. Everywhere was quiet, the moon behind wisps of cloud, a nearby street lamp casting the car in a muted orange. Edward left the vehicle and walked through the gate, up to the front door. He knocked quietly and stood back. After a few moments, the hall light came on and the door opened. The womans husband recognised who it was instantly.
"Detective, strange time to be calling, said Peter Selden. Edward smiled that humourless smile again.
"Weve found her, he said. "Shes dead. Peter closed his eyes, slowly breathed in through his nose, then took a few steps back. He collapsed to his knees, his face in his hands.
"Alright, alright, it was me. I killed her, he said. Edward stared at him for a few moments. That was it, he thought. Case closed. He took from his pocket a mobile telephone, and before he began the necessary procedures, there was one person he decided to call first. After a few rings, it went to an answering machine.
"Congratulations, said Edward. "Youve done it again.

2

Curio Enchantment, real name Philip Harrison, played the message for the eleventh time, and it was still satisfying: Congratulations, youve done it again. That was all it said. He had a huge satisfied grin on his face, knowing exactly what it meant, further understanding the status and significance of his role when it came to locating missing persons. His talent was increasingly being proven, and people knew it. This was another string to his bow, another success, another blow to the sceptics who would find it all amusing. Philip was 34 years old, and lived alone on the fifth floor of a block of flats in Widnes. He was lean, 6 foot 2 inches, mostly wore black pullovers and trousers, and had long, curly hair that reached his shoulders.
The flat was sparsely furnished when he had moved in. It had basically consisted of a table, a TV cabinet, a bed with a stained mattress, a two door alpine wardrobe, and an armchair. All were second hand, maybe fifth and sixth hand. He had bought a couple of items himself, such as a bedside cabinet, a desk and a coffee table, but not much else. He used to have a girlfriend, and had lived with her for seven years in her parents house. They had died of carbon monoxide poisoning in their beds, so it was left to her. Yet, Philips increasing involvement with learning about supernatural activity had led him to believe that he had a gift. He had a mind like a radio. It could tune in to the spirit world. At least he thought it could. Soon his obsession had caused her to show him the door, and find a cheap flat in a threatened block. The council were always threatening to knock it down, but as is usually the case, not much ever happened at all. It was all speculation, but Philip didnt care. If he carried on like this, he thought, then hed make enough money to move out of the pokey little abode and buy a proper house. At this rate, he would start making money soon, he was sure of it. Thats if his success rate kept up, which he was confident it would, because he knew his star was rising. This was the fourth missing person he had located by psychic detection. When the police were running out of leads, they called him for help, and out of the six times they had called, four had been a success. He didnt pinpoint exactly where they were, but it was usually within a fifty foot circumference. The latest had been located within the area only by one of the officers spotting disturbed earth, thanks to Philip for his detective work for which his reward was the kudos and esteem it would bring. When called upon to help discover the whereabouts of a missing person, Philip would be picked up by Edward Stanton, as it had always been him who called, and driven to a secluded location where he could perform his work. Edward would always provide a personal item from the missing person, borrowed from a concerned friend, or parent. Philip required as much silence as possible. He would grasp the item in both hands, raise them to his fore-head, close his eyes, and concentrate to see if he could pick up on traumatic brainwaves emanating from that person. If the person was alive, then no energy would be detected. If, however, the person was deceased, he could locate their whereabouts by the trauma that would still pulse like radiowaves from a distressed brain. The spirit may be gone, but there was still activity, especially if the person had recently passed away. Should they have been dead for a long time, then this energy would eventually fade, and he would not have been able to pick up on any waves. He guessed that a traumatised brain could be active for up to eight months after a person had died. When Edward could find no indications as to their whereabouts, he would call Philip, as at that point he had reached the conclusion that the person was dead. He had always been correct. They had been murdered, and upon confrontation with the suspects, they had always confessed. Philip had picked up on the traumatised brainwaves, from which the personal item acted as a tuner to the correct frequency. He could trace it to its source, and give Edward an approximate location.
Many people had asked him for this technique which he had readily given, but he knew that it was difficult to achieve, so did not mind revealing his system. If it was easy, he had thought, then everybody would be doing it. He knew he had a unique gift, and gladly told his method to anybody who inquired.
His successes had proven him to be talented in the eyes of the believers. Of course there were sceptics. On the few occasions when he had been invited onto radio shows as a guest, he would sometimes receive calls from the public, and while most of them believed, there was always somebody who thought it was a load of garbage. However, they always rang off with their tail between their legs when Philip asked them how did he do it then, when on all four of his successes, all of them murder, the killer had soon confessed afterwards. How did he know where the bodies where? Long silence. Ah, loada garbage, click. Cue a grin from Philip. There was nothing like the satisfaction of being proved right.
His kudos had now been raised even higher, and he was sure he would be invited onto more shows now, maybe even onto local regional television. He knew he would sleep well tonight, his dreams of fame now much more realistic. His dreams could possibly now come true. Fame, celebrity status. Imagine that, he thought. Your body and soul may be gone, but your name remains forever. He wondered how long it would be before the police rang again for his help in locating another missing person.
After his third success, he had been invited onto a late-night phone in with a local DJ who had only been in the business for nine months, and brought local people in who had had a modicum of success to discuss their work and take questions from the public. Curios first interview had gone well, and he saw it as the first step in the path to fame. He gave out his contact details and stated that he is not only a specialist in finding missing persons, but can give readings and predict peoples future. It was basically anything supernatural, or anything that science had not proven. Philip always believed he had some sort of talent when it came to the unexplained, the unexplained in scientific terms anyway, things that can be deemed paranormal or supernatural. He believed in it. He knew that not everything can be explained by science, and that evidence for the unknown cannot always be wrong. He never expressed doubt. There was no need for him to question. If he could detect where missing bodies where then it would be highly likely he could tune his mind to the spirit world, a world which was parallel to ours, according to him. We cannot see them, but they can see us. We have free will in reality, so there was no reason to suggest that spirits do not, or that their personalities alter after passing over. Basically, they were and are invisible, and can spy on whoever they wish, because it is their choosing. However, they cannot interact with reality. To do that, they must attain a certain power from somewhere unknown within the spirit world, and thus become a poltergeist.
Philip was gullible without doubt. His reasoning behind a lot of what he had learned was taken from books, articles, and newsletters. He thought that because it was published, because it was in a shop, for sale, then what was between the covers must be true, must have some basis in fact, not realising that a lot of it was probably self published by the author who just had to tell people he had crossed over and came back, had an out of body experience and spoke with his long dead relatives. He believed newspapers, even the tabloids that were aimed at the less intelligent people in society. He was a believer who rarely questioned what he read, like a devout religious person who reads their holy book and does not question what is written. It must be true, and that is that. Deep down within the person, there was a conviction that it was true. They could feel that it was correct. They just knew. They didnt need proof. Philip didnt need scepticism. What was the point when he knew ghosts existed? When he knew the reality of telepathy and aliens? He just needed more practice in performance and understanding. He wanted to explain the unexplained. He wanted the unknown to become known. He wanted to pioneer the proof of supernatural activity. He wanted to go down in history as the man who finally silenced the sceptics, who made them embarrassed and apologetic. He wanted them on their knees, begging his forgiveness, worshipping him as an idol. A man to be looked up to, to be respected, a pillar of society. A man whose kudos was full to the brim, whose portrait hung in believers houses, especially in houses where once there was misgivings, where they looked at his picture in awe. They would thank him for showing them the reality of paranormal activity, for turning them into believers. Where once there was doubt, now there was fact, and Philip would show them that. He would shove it in their faces until they could ask no more questions. Here is my proof, show me yours. No-one would doubt him. They would beg him for his advice and wisdom. By that time he would probably be rich. Nice car, nice house, glamour model girlfriend. His rewards for his knowledge, and his sharing of it with the world. He had changed his name to Curio Enchantment. Not by deed poll, but by simply referring to it when strangers asked. That was what he would be known as when it circulated further. For now though, his dreams of fame and notoriety were simply that, dreams. He had a mountain to climb, and he just wondered how much further he had to go. His attempts at seeing the future where he was lifting an award was somewhat clouded. He had to practice precognition, and many other abilities. Now that he was known to the police as a possibility in helping with their investigations, they should help his career no end, and he hoped that the telephone would ring more often, as sometimes months would pass where it remained silent.

3

Malcolm Selden wasnt listening to a lecture about Electronic and computer engineering at Widnes university. His mind was elsewhere. Perhaps if the lecturer was saying something interesting, he would still be in a world of his own, as he had come to try and take his mind off his concern, but it was no use. He was sat at the back of the lecture theatre, slouched in a chair, his arms folded, staring at the back of the chair in front, but not seeing it. He was 27 years old, single, wore casual clothes that always bordered on old-fashioned, and had a business mans cut hairstyle. He was studying for a first degree with honours in Information systems development. His friend, Tom Parker was sat in a seat diagonal from him. He was watching Malcolm with curiosity.
"You still worried? he whispered. Malcolm looked at him, breaking from his stupor.
"Worried? he said. "I cant stop thinking of it. It just doesnt make sense. My dad isnt like that. He wouldnt just kill my mum like that. Im sorry. It doesnt add up. I know he did it. He admitted it, and all the forensics have confirmed that it was him who strangled her, but it just doesnt make sense. He was never violent. As far as I know, he never lifted a finger to her. I dont remember him even shouting at me. He just would not suddenly decide to kill my mum like that. He clicked his fingers, and noticed that the theatre was quiet. He saw that the lecturer had stopped speaking, had folded his arms, and was staring up at Malcolm. Other faces looked in his direction. His face went red and he went back to staring at the back of the chair.
The lecturer continued:
"After their establishment, both systems become peers. Malcolm and Tom exchanged glances, which basically said: Ill speak to you later.
The building was a modern structure, with orange bricks and oddly angled windows, reflecting an attempt to come into modern society by basically resembling what was probably a students architectural design project. In the foyer, where there was always a constant stream of students, coming and going, and standing outside, smoking, Malcolm and Tom walked slowly to the exit, their day over in the place. It was 12:00 noon.
"So what are you going to do? asked Tom. Malcolm was deep in thought.
"What can I do? Tell the police I think my Dad just had a moment of madness? He wont do it again, promise. Tom had no answer.
"Ill have to go and see him Malcolm continued, "Theres nothing else I can do. I have to understand why. They walked outside. Tom was 25, three inches shorter than Malcolm, always wore clothing that was white, or cream, with a cap that seemed perfectly suited to him. He was one of those people that easily suited headgear.
"Hey, theres that girl you fancy, he said, looking in the direction of a group of girls, chatting near a metal bench. One in particular had long black hair and was wearing a dusty pink sequin neck dress. She had her back to them.
"Where? This unis is full of girls I fancy. It must be a prerequisite of entry. All girls must be fit, said Malcolm. He saw her.
"Shes with her mates,. Tom frowned, and said:
"I bet even if she was on her own, you wouldnt talk to her. He smiled, but Malcolms sour expression reminded him of what was on his mind, and it vanished. They both walked away.
When his father appeared, he looked as though he had just woken up. He had a stubble and his hair was dishevelled. Sitting down opposite Malcolm, and folding his arms, he regarded him like an unwelcome stranger.
"What? he asked. Malcolm leaned forward on the desk.
"Dad! What are you doing? Why dyou suddenly decide to kill mum? It doesnt make sense. Thats not like you at all, now what where you thinking? Why Dad, why? Tell me. Peter Seldens expression did not change. He took a few moments to answer, and shrugged.
"I wanted to.
"Is that it? You just felt like. Suddenly you just decided to strangle my mum, drive her out into a field, and bury her. From the moment you put your hands round her neck, you knew exactly what you where doing. What I dont understand is why. What did she do? 38 years youve been married. 38 years, and now you just decide to kill her just because you felt like!. Peter nodded.
"I just killed her. Thats the way it is. Its what I did. His expression became introverted, thinking back to the event.
"Yep, he nodded. "I killed her, I drove her out into the field, strangled her, buried her, drove back. Then I watched that soap opera that I like. He smiled, thinking of that.
"Bobby started an affair with the bar-maid. When it finished, I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but while the kettle boiled, there was a knock on the door. I answered it, and. Peters face changed to one of concern, with a slight hint of fear.
"Then II dont know. Malcolm shook his head.
"Thats not a reason. You just wanted to. You just decided to kill her! Come on dad, tell me. Make me understand. Its not like you at all. You wouldnt kill her for no reason, just cos you felt like. It doesnt make fucking sense. Peter just sat there, as though he wasnt listening.
"What happened Dad? What happened? Why didnt you just tell me to mind my language? The Dad I knew would have done. Peter shrugged. Malcolm quickly stood up, the plastic chair clattering backwards. He banged both his palms on the table.
"For fucks sake Dad, tell me why? Malcolm felt hands grab his arms and pull him backwards.
"Times up, son someone said to him. Peter still looked introverted. He wasnt looking at Malcolm.
"She had to die, he said, "She had to die.
Malcolm was sat in a paved shopping area, on a bench, staring at a few scruffy pigeons searching for food. It had begun to rain slightly, and his face and hair was covered in light drizzle. All he could think of was his fathers words: "She had to die. What did he mean by that? and why did she have to die? He had no answers, but knew he could not function properly without knowing, without understanding. It was no use in persisting with Dad, he was useless, he thought, but what else can I do? Maybe it would be worth trying him again though, and the police are going to grill him anyway. They should be able to prise a proper answer out of him. Then Ill have to get the answer from them, he thought. It wasnt simply a case of just walking into the police station and saying: So what did my Dad say? Whyd he kill my Mum?. It might be even harder to get an answer out of them. Still, it would be worth going back again sometime, just incase hes gone back to being the Dad I once knew.

4

The telephone only rang twice in the following two days. One was a wrong number, the other was from Kickin FM radio who wanted to invite Curio onto one of their shows with DJ Space Hoppa. He always had guests on to answer calls from the public, interspersed with the latest chart tracks. It was basically aimed at teenagers. Hoppas guests were never truly famous. They were people who had made a fragment of a name for themselves locally, and saw that coming onto Hoppas show was an amazing career boost, even though the airwaves only covered half of the north-west. Basically, when Hoppa announced who the guest was, it was usually a case of: Ive never heard of them. However, Curios appearance on the show was the following day. As the body was not headline news, its discovery by Curio only warranted a small section in the corner of page seven of the local free circular. They used his real name and no picture.
Today, he had to suffer the embarrassment of walking into the jobcentre and signing on. He could not yet tell them where to go, where they could stick their girocheques, but he was quite sure he wasnt far away from doing that. A balding man in his late forties looked at Curio across the desk as though he was wondering whether or not he was serious.
"OK, Mr Enchantment. You wish to have your name altered to Curio. Is that right? You want me to change what it says on the system.
"I dont want to be known as Philip anymore. Could you change it please? The man shook his head.
"No, I cant do that. Ill have to book you in to see an advisor. Tell them, theyll do it. Curio frowned, disbelieving.
"An appointment? Are you serious? Look, forget it. Just give me a pen. The man did so, trying desperately not to grin. Philip signed his name and went to stand up.
"Er, hold on, Mr Enchantment. What have you been doing to look for work?
"This and that, he muttered. He hadnt done a thing lately, so enamoured and convinced was he that riches where just over the horizon, that finding a job was pointless.
"What?
"Sent some letters off to a few supermarkets. The man nodded, and typed something on the computer.
"Theres no vacancies for psychic detectives yet, but Ill keep you posted, the man said, not hiding his grin.
"Glad to see you know who I am, said Curio. He was handed his card, and got up and left. Outside in the cold air, beneath a white sky and gathering wind, Curio nodded at what he had just said in the jobcentre. The man knew who he was, it seemed outside of the records. He headed home, people around him passing by like robots, as they always did to everybody who looked normal. Soon they would recognise me, he thought. They would stop me in the street and want autographs and a chat about anything. No-one gave him a second glance, though, but they would, he guessed. Soon they would know his name.

5

Guess wt I bought?
Wt?
Go on, guess
A sex change operation. Ha ha ha ha ha
Hilarious. No. I tk ur advice, remember, bout tht place, now Ive bought an Alfa Romeo 156 1.8TS Brand new. 9K
Ace. C? I told you it ws ripe 4 th taking
Damn right it ws, anyway got 2 go. C U L8r. Thomas Parker nodded, and ended the email conversation. He sat back in his chair and shook his head. Alfa Romeo, eh. Maybe Ill change my car, he thought. Get myself a Porsche Boxster. Thatll show him. He grinned. Lets see what he thinks when I pull up in that. Not yet though, let him have his fun, driving round in his new car, showing off. Tom lived with his mother at their elaborate detached home in Halton view, east of Widnes. He had bought it himself from his gathered funds. He basically didnt need to work. His income was regular and more than sufficient. All he had to do was preserve it, keep it balanced, and adapt with any changes it made. He and his email friend, Anthony Kendrick, both lived lavish lifestyles, and could afford most luxurious items. His mother was not wise to what Tom did. She just thought that he had earned it somehow over those computer thingies. Yet, she was right. He was studying Networks and telecommunications engineering. His bank balance was healthy due to his knowledge of computer systems and modern technology. He had hacked into the mainframe of a bank by creating a virus, which he had sent via anonymous email. The only unstable and unknown factor with regards to it was whether or not it would be opened by the recipient. He had written as the subject: IMPORTANT INFORMATION. The workers had been told to be suspicious of email, because they may cause viruses, but Tom had altered the address of the sender so it looked as if it had come from another branch, from a person superior to them, so without thinking, they opened it, only to find an advert:
Protect your computer from viruses. Updated software shield Viralguard. You can purchase for just $49.99. There followed a list of benefits for this package. It basically looked like a normal advert, and was therefore ignored. However, the very opening of the email had sent the virus into the banks mainframe computer where it had been programmed to hide. It was not a virus that had been made to simply cause damage. It was to dismantle part of the banks security firewall. He only needed one puncture. The engineers would need to look microscopically to see any anomalies. To them, the shield was still active, and security was still strong. Once it had been breached, the virus had to self destruct. Basically, it deleted itself, leaving no trace whatsoever. Tom then had a direct link to the bank mainframe, and had sent another virus, again, not to be destructive, but to gather data about peoples accounts and send them to him via the firewall gap. He obtained pin and account numbers, and the amount of money each account holder had. He also had the ability to alter those numbers. Therefore he could give people money, or take it away. Tom had two bank accounts, one with this bank, under the name Floyd Bracewell, who was a sales manager for a health food company, and one with another branch, under his normal name. This one had his funds from income support, and was basically his front. When he had to undertake financial dealings, then this was the account he referred to, as everything about it was above board, but the Floyd account was where his riches had built up. He discovered that many of the accounts people held where consistently in the four figure bracket. The person took out money, it went in, and this was normal. People spent their earnings, and then they were paid their wages until their jobs ended. Tom had found this with many of the accounts. The amount they had was never stable. It meant that he could siphon off a few pounds from each into Floyds account. The person would not notice a few pounds missing. They would trust the bank to be reliable. If thats how much they had left, then that was that. Maybe there was a slight extra charge for something. A charge for sending out a letter. A direct debit bill payment with slightly added expense for something the account holder failed to do. It didnt matter, because Tom knew that should they even notice anything missing, they should cease their questioning after reading his ready made message that would be relayed to the inquirer upon investigation: System error. Information unavailable. There may be technical difficulties for this setting, PCT.3.0. It looked important, but had absolutely no meaning. Its job was to simply put off any further probing. He had not needed it yet. Of 1097 bank accounts that Tom had picked, because of the four figure reason, two pounds per week from each transferred into Floyds account, and with the statements not declaring where the money had actually gone to, he was basically an anonymous cyber thief. However, as with most people who had considerable funds, they always wanted more. There was no cap they would put on the attainment of wealth. As there was no highest number, there was therefore no limit to greed. They would be unlikely to find out where two pounds had gone, even if they bothered to check. Only Malcolm, Anthony, and his girlfriend knew how he acquired his money. The seed of his skills was planted in night school the previous year. The computer course he had taken, Digital applications, gave him the realisation and the knowledge to build upon. His first success came when he hacked into the university finances and diverted some of the student grants into his account. He got away with it, but knew it was dangerous putting the money into the account in his name. It wasnt long before Floyd came along. Following him was further riches. A nice house in an expensive area, a Mitshbishi Colt, a #500 watch, gold bracelet, and many high quality brand name clothes. He knew that his girlfriend was a gold-digger, that if his money ever stopped, then she would find some other man whom she would pretend to love, when her real love existed in the bank. He didnt care. She wasnt very attractive, and had an attitude problem. He would leave her soon, he had told himself, let her find some other mug. She would be more upset at the stopping of the money he spent on her. Shed get over it, he thought. She would have to. He had other things on his mind, as well as further boosting his bank balance, his interest had been piqued by the proposal of a new building being erected fifteen miles from where he lived. It was set to become a research facility for medicine and vaccinations. Tom wasnt a malicious person. In a physical fight he would be the first to run away, but he had every intention of bringing the company to its knees.

6

"That was Bob Funk with: My Babys left me for a custard pie The psychedelic jangles faded away across the airwaves.
"Im joined by my guest, a Mr Curio Enchantment. Thats a curious name said DJ Space Hoppa, bursting into laughter. Curio just smiled out of sympathy, wearing his headphones, across the desk from Hoppa, a microphone before his mouth. Hoppa was ten years younger than Curio, but he acted even ten years younger. His radio persona was of a wacky guy, who was down with the street kids, rather like some of the childrens TV programme presenters whose ego swells to massive proportions and think theyre the funniest thing on the planet, who talk down to the viewers, and are subconsciously saying: Look at me, Im on TV, and youre not. Im just so crazy. That was Hoppa. He thought he was a big personality because he was on the radio. Yet Hoppa had settled for now on one of the steps to fame, and Curio had not reached that height yet, but he was close.
"Later on well be having a phone-in, so you can put your questions to him, but he might know already what youre gonna ask. said Hoppa He looked across at his guest.
"So, Curio. Mr Enchantingment. Youre a psychic detective, you hunt down dead people with your mind. He said it as a statement.
"You could put it like that. Im out to prove the existence of paranormal phenomena. No longer is it speculative and unprovable. I focus not just on finding missing persons, but on all things that science cannot prove.
"Phernominaaaa!. Maybe you are a ghost, Curio. How am I to know? There was a pause. Curio didnt answer.
"I saw a ghost once Hoppa continued. "At the time I was eating an ice screeeeeeem! Hoppa yelled the last word, and suddenly Curio got the urge to punch Hoppa hard in the face. Hes not taking this seriously, he finally realised.
"So can you speak with ghosts, like?
"I do believe I can commune with the spirits of the deceased. I can feel their concerns and emotions.
"What do they say? I aint got nobody?. Hoppa laughed again, and waved up to the webcam.
"Smile, youre live worldwide.
"What? I didnt know that, Ah, a bigger audience, thought Curio.
"I also believe theres...
"Ill stop you there Curio lad. Time for a choon. A hard house track came on, and all Curio heard was the warblings of a woman, who, he found, actually had a nice voice. The music she sang to however, was undoubtedly made on a cheap keyboard in some wannabe DJs bedroom.
Hoppa never looked at Curio during the track. Instead, he busied himself by staring at a monitor and clicking a mouse. Curio guessed he was rifling through tracks to play later. When the song finished, Hoppa became more animated and went back to the microphone.
"That was DJ Stevie with Heartbreakin lover. My guest this morning is a Mr Curio Enchantment. Psychic detective and ghost hunter extraordinaire.
He can read minds and tell you your future. Hes an all round mystic. Curio smiled without humour.
"Tell me Curio, whats my future hold?
"Whats your date of birth?
"I aint tellin cos you should tell me. Whats my date of birth?
"Well
"OK, Ill help you out. My star sign is Sagaquarius. Ha ha ha. Fooled ya.
"Astrology is fast becoming more and more recognised as a genuine phenomenon. Whats the point of the stars being there, if theyre not for our benefit?
"Phernominaaaa! Tell me Enchantingment, you claim to read minds, what am I thinking now? He closed his eyes and put his hands over his headphones. Curio then had an idea. It would raise his profile, create some controversy, and embarrass Hoppa.
"OK, said Curio. "Youre thinking these exact words: Im a pathetic, talentless little cunt. It felt good to say that, Curio found. Hoppas eyes opened and he looked shocked. Curio stood up and took his headphones off. He pointed at the buttons beside Hoppa, who was speechless.
"Is that what youre looking for? The ten second delay switch. Uh oh! too late. Its gone out. Ha, its into the bosses office for you. Youre sacked. Hoppas face reddened and he stood up angrily.
"Get out! he shouted, pointing to the door. Curio duly obliged.
The sun was threatening to come out from behind the clouds, and the wind had lessened to a slight breeze. Curio had decided to walk 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. Theyre far too busy, was Curios 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 wasnt long before he was sat reading about ancient astronauts.

7

He was drunk, but he didnt 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 wasnt much better. Hed been told what he already knew, that there was a possibility he might lose his job. It was basically affirming his beliefs, but he wasnt alone. The trade union wouldnt 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 couldnt work out their levels of intoxication, and always ended up drunk, but thought they were fine, when his colleagues knew exactly that he wasnt. He had spent more time looking at the bottom of a pint glass, now that the cloud above him didnt 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 wouldnt 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, thats all Ill get now off the missus. Whereve 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. Hed done it before, but it didnt 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 didnt 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 wasnt. He was dead. Her face and front dripped crimson, but she didnt 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 didnt 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 hadnt written a word, hadnt given it a thought, and knew he wouldnt. 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 telephone 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. Im ringing with regards to your father. He paused for a few moments, waiting for Malcolms acknowledgement.
"OK, he prompted.
"Im afraid hes dead. He committed suicide this morning. The news didnt 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. Curios 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 wasnt 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 Curios 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 animals 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 telepathy 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 weirdos 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 didnt 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 enchantment@surfcity.com 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 hadnt read:
Dear Curio,
As a fan of yours, I was pleased to see your posting on the internet regarding regression. I felt I had to write to you. I have to confide in someone. I dont think anybody will believe me. So I write to you, hoping that you can explain the meaning of what happened to me. I know and understand the techniques of regression. Its a serious interest I have. I wanted to find out who I used to be, so I used the techniques on myself. I set up a video recorder to film what happened, but I ended up kicking the tripod and it fell over. Now it needs fixing. What I found out was that I was around in the seventeenth century. The visions I had were vivid. They were real. I was looking at me in my past. I saw myself digging. I was removing bodies. I knew, I dont know how I knew, but they were for research. Doctors paid me. That was how I made money. It never paid well though, so I started murdering. It didnt matter how they died. Drowning, strangling, beating, burning, stabbing. All I know is that I took to it like a bird takes to the air. I could feel myself enjoying it. I made more money then. Then after a while, a lynch mob found me, strung me up out in a field and burned me. I could feel the flames, and when I woke, I was much hotter. My temperature had risen. Please help.

I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours.
Ribbet.
Curio frowned. What exactly was he asking? OK, he was murderer. Did he want to go back to the life before that and change his destiny, so that the following existence would not yield psychopathic tendencies? He didnt have an answer, but decided to reply as best he could:
Dear Ribbet,
I appreciate your letter. You must not be an amateur in order to regress yourself, so you obviously know what youre doing. Perhaps you should confirm that it is true that you were a murderer by looking, basically, in the history books. There would probably have been some reference to it. Also, you could try regressing yourself again, and if you see the same vision, then that should confirm it. Yet, you may regress to other lives as well. There is no telling with it. Once you go back, its down to chance which life you see.
I would be interested to know if you do this. I think its impossible to change anything thats happened. Basically, you would have to alter time, and that, I believe is impossible. You enter the realms of fantasy down that route. You cannot change the past. However, thats my opinion. Maybe it is possible. Who am I to say it isnt?
Regards.
Curio.
He clicked send, and sat back, satisfied. He read the other forum replies, and found two to be of value, but one was from Abe, who seemed quite sceptical:
Curio, you cant expect common, decent folk to just believe something on hearsay. There is a lot of what you would call evidence that cannot stand up to scrutiny. That goes for all things paranormal. If you look at them closely, then the proof that they offer is thin, insubstantial, and built on quicksand. I know you, Curio. Ive heard you on the radio. You talk drivel. Why dont you subject yourself to scrutiny, or become silent until you know what youre talking about.
Curio folded his arms and shook his head. Cheeky git, he thought. He typed hard on the keyboard:
Abe, you dont think I know what Im talking about? Well chew on this. The police have called me in six times to telepathically find missing persons. I will admit Ive got it wrong twice. The other four, Ive got it spot on. Is that chance, considering how big Britain is? They could have been anywhere, but I got them right. Also, four times in a row. Now is that not proof that I have some ability? and if I have some ability, then that surely proves that telepathy is real. It is fact. Curio sent that message, and spent the next few minutes reading other posts, and the latest newsletter. He went back to the forum and found that Abe had replied.
OK, that is good, but it cannot be called proof. Not yet anyway. You need a few more hits to reduce the laws of chance and possibly consider the fact that you may indeed have some ability that could be deemed psychic. If you provide further evidence of your powers, then maybe Ill start believing. Until then, goodbye.
Surely that was proof enough, he thought. Nevermind. He shut everything down and turned the computer off. Soon, the room was plunged into darkness.

10

Malcolm stared at the bubbles racing to the top of his lager as if hed never seen them before, like a curious cat watching a fly. He was sat with Tom in the corner of The Silver Wheels, onto his third pint of lager. It didnt help bring him closer to any answers. It didnt help with anything, but he needed to do something, and to speak to someone. Tom had listened, had understood, but could not give any explanation for his predicament. He just sipped his bitter, feeling rather helpless.
"I cant just do nothing, said Malcolm. "Or else Ill never know. Anyway, enough about me. What about you? What have you been up to? Where have you been hacking now?. Tom looked around him, deciding whether or not he was in earshot of anybody else. The pub was approximately half full, and there was sufficient noise for Tom to keep his voice heard by Malcolm alone.
"If I tell you, youve got to promise not to breathe a word.
"Ive got quite enough to worry about, thank you. I hardly think that whatever youre up to will stop me finding out why my Dad went mental. Tom was quiet for a few moments, then leaned in closer to Malcolm.
"My source of income is fine. No detections. Well, did you know that there is a new company opening up just off the M53. Ryvak centre for medical research?. Malcolm shrugged.
"Youre not going to hack into them? he said, his tone rather loud. Toms eyes became shifty, his face turned a light scarlet, and he quickly scanned the pub for anybody who might have heard. Nobody had.
"Shhh! he said, looking back. "Keep your voice down.
"Come on, be realistic, said Malcolm, "You cant steal money from them. Its like stealing from a charity. Tom shook his head.
"No. Its not. Theyre going to experiment on animals, and use them for nothing that cant be done without them. Why cant they experiment on prisoners or volunteers? Cos thats too much like common sense.
"I thought they stopped testing cosmetics. Isnt that banned now?
"You think theyre going to stop that if it makes a profit? They test on the voiceless. Animals cannot protest, say no, tell the scientists to fuck off and stick the needles in their throats. You think they care about animals? Well trust me, I guarantee that they dont. Theyre subjects. Objects to be probed and examined. Cannon fodder. Barcodes. Statistics. I dont need to go anywhere near the place to bring it crashing down.
"Crashing down?.
"Well not literally. I mean theyll start losing money, but I wont be taking it. It will actually be going nowhere.
"What do you mean?
"Ill tell you when I start doing it.
"How tempting is it to just go there and burn it down? Malcolm asked.
"Very, Tom said. "Its tempting to just go there with a machine gun, walk around the place killing everyone, rescue the animals, then burn the damn place down so it cant be used again. Still, what I intend to do will have a similar effect, but no-one will die. No animals should come to any harm, cos harm is exactly what they will come to if they go in there. So Im going to harm them right where it hurts the most. There was a few moments silence.
"I think its my round, he said, standing up.

11

The library on campus was the type where the air itself was very still, where every sound was amplified, even down to the turning of pages by students who looked lost in their work, with open textbooks spread around them, along with rulers, rubbers, pens, calculators. They were probably those who were fast approaching a deadline, so made a beeline for the library to scribble down what they could. Malcolm sometimes wondered if half of them cheated by copying out of books. Maybe they did. He was often tempted himself to do so. He was here to see a student whom he did not particularly know, but was on nodding terms with. The type of person whom he would acknowledge passing by in a corridor, but would have nothing else to say in other situations, such as in a lift, or a queue. This time, however, Malcolm was seeking him out because he was a student of psychology with criminology, studying for a first degree with honours, and was coming to the end of his last year. In a few months time, he would either have a career in it, or would be stacking shelves in a supermarket.
Malcolm eventually found him upstairs, unsurprisingly in the psychology section. He had a table to himself in the corner, and Malcolm hovered near the rail overlooking the tables below. Ryan Vaughn was 24, and was one of those students who looked much older. This was self imposed primarily because he was the type of student who could easily grow a moustache and beard within a few days. In every class, along with the stereotypical skinny kid, overweight kid, shy kid, loud kid, big-eared kid, freckle faced kid, handsome kid, buck-toothed kid, there was always the kid who would display none of these, but would be the first to grow a moustache, and they would feel like the more mature pupil, the one who had taken further steps into adulthood. Most of the kids would look up to their elders, and emulate them by trying smoking and alcohol at young ages, but then in an ironic turnaround, when they reached adulthood, when they became mature, they longed for their childhood and wasted youth. It was basically a case of If only.! If only Id done this, if only Id done that. Everybody to some degree had some regrets that could not be rectified. Malcolm would probably regret not talking to the girl he is attracted to around the university. Should she vanish altogether, then no scientist on the planet could help him reverse time. If only, it seemed was a bane on the conscience when the irreversible decision was wrong. However, for Ryan, making himself look older may prove in the long term to be a mistake. An integral part in shaping the persona of the adult is in the decisions made in youth. A teenager prone to hostility sees an old woman carrying a purse. His decision is made right there. His life could alter based on that choice. If he steals the purse, then maybe he is caught and sent to a place where there are others like him, and he is therefore influenced by them. Should he not steal the purse, his life would take a separate path. The choices Ryan, and indeed Malcolm, had made, had led them here, to this moment, and any regrets they had are accepted, and not entirely forgotten, but sometimes reluctantly remembered.
Ryan had a few psychology books around him, but he was reading a newspaper, the rustle of the pages amplified. Malcolm wondered if the books were simply for show, for some extra esteem from passing women. He didnt have any stationary around him, just a mobile telephone on a closed book entitled: Assessment of industrial psychology. It probably hadnt even been opened. Ryan looked like the type of person who never stopped being a student. He wore what could be described as a casual suit. It was dark brown, and matched his hair and two-inch beard. Malcolm didnt know why he felt reluctant to approach him. Was it a natural desire not to disturb him? Was it a fear of saying something to offend him and losing the respect he already had with him? It didnt matter, he needed answers, and Ryan may indeed possibly enlighten him. He could but try.
After a few minutes, they were talking as if they had known each other for years. Ryan seemed pleased that he had been asked to help out, as it was an actual incident, in the real world that he could perhaps have some involvement with. What he said to Malcolm may change his mind and therefore he would have played a part in his investigation. His input may be minimal, but depending on how Malcolm used it, may be very significant.
"See, what youve got to understand is that... said Ryan, trying to get his point in order. "Nobody really knows anybody 100%. We cannot say that it is really unlike somebody, because we do not understand them fully. Think of a first date. They dont know each other really, but they want to. Its where they discover each other, their likes, fears, hopes, and as they come to understand them more fully, they get to know the person, get to know their personality. Its a voyage of discovery, but in the end, they could be married for 50 years or more, and still make new discoveries about each other.
"But murder, though, Im convinced my Dad would have abhorred the thought of hurting my mother. He never hit me, and for him to just do what he did, and blatantly admit it as though it was something he just decided to do, just doesnt make sense. He said to me: She had to die, now why would he say that? and why would he kill himself afterwards? when that, to me, is not like my Dad at all. I just dont get it.
"He killed himself? said Ryan, "I didnt know. He looked deep in thought.
"Seems to be more of an occurrence up here in the north lately. I suppose you know of the others. Malcolm shook his head.
"I hardly pay attention to news lately. Its all too depressing. Ryan rifled through the newspaper, and eventually found what he was looking for. He folded the paper so that the article was prominent and pushed it towards Malcolm. It was small, sidebar news, on page nine, pushed aside for the more important revelation that a popstar had broken a photographers jaw, a photographer from the same newspaper, who were taking out their frustrations by printing as much sordid details about them as they could get away with. The story was of a labourer from a vehicle manufacturers who had been stabbed to death by his wife. She had buried him in the back garden. When he had been found, she had confessed to killing him, but then, later on, she had killed herself in custody. A neighbour had been quoted as saying: I knew her for years. That was unlike her. I didnt think she would do that. Malcolm sat back and stared at the article.
"See, said Ryan, "No-one truly understands the idiosyncrasies of the human mind. You could be the nicest man on the planet, yet sleep with animal corpses every night as though it was completely normal. Incidentally, while I must put it down to coincidence, this has been more prominent lately, leading me to think there may be more to it than that. Over the past year, you probably know anyway, but there have been a few people going missing, then found by the same person by psychic detection. Of those he has got right, which I believe is four in a row, the killers confess, then soon after kill themselves. They are responsible for the murders, but those who knew them all say similar things to her. He gestured to the newspaper. "Its not surprising that they would say that, considering the fact that most people dont have murderous tendencies unless truly provoked. If you had a wife and kids brutally murdered by me in your house, and you came home to find me drenched in blood, sitting in your armchair watching TV, and I then told you to go and make me a cuppa, wellyou would see the chopped up corpses, then you would see me, and then you would see red. Well, youd see red anyway but you know what I mean. What Im saying is we are all capable of murder. When driven to the absolute edge. Kill or be killed, we would surprise ourselves at what we are capable of. Malcolm nodded.
"Yes, but is it really a coincidence that four unrelated murders were committed by someone close to them whom, presumably wouldnt dream of murder.
"They are linked. The psychic, I forget his name. The one who found them, who, dont forget, found your mother.
"Then that makes him a suspect. I should call the police and explain it.
"How can he be a suspect? All he did was find them telepathically. He didnt actually murder them. If he finds four in a row, then that does not make him a killer. The police would make nothing of that. Each case is wrapped up. The killer confesses, and thats that. Like I say, you cannot fully understand the human mind and motivations. There is plenty of untapped and unknown areas still to be probed. Basically, these things happen, and we have to just accept it as a mysterious aspect of behaviour. Malcolm nodded, pushed the newspaper back, then stood up. He thanked Ryan for his help, but left feeling unsatisfied. There was just something that didnt fit, didnt make 100% sense. He thought again of his fathers departing words: She had to die. Why though? Why did she have to die? He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that when he left the main building, he didnt notice the girl he was attracted to walk straight past him.
That was it, he thought. No more avenues. Would a talk with the psychic reveal anything? he wondered. Probably not. He couldnt help but think that Ryan was right. These things happen. It was one of those mysteries of life that are never explained. He had to accept that he wasnt going to find an answer, and when he decided that his coursework was important after all, he knew it would prey on his mind less and less.

12

It was one of those mornings where the comfort of the bed was even more welcoming, as grey clouds covered the sky and poured out rain like a forceful shower. Deep rumblings punctuated the sound of the downpour and the occasional flash lit the town for a split second. No-one would actively want to go out in this weather, that was except for George Dennison, who, while not actually wanting to go out, was fulfilling what he felt was a duty every morning to his Staffordshire bull terrier. Basically, every morning at 07:30, he would take it for a walk around the park behind his house. It didnt matter what the weather was like, the dog had to be taken out, so he found himself in the park, walking along a path, carrying a dog chain while Fang ran around on the grass, sniffing everything and chasing a ball that George threw often.
George was one of those bachelors whose life revolved around motorbikes. He was overweight, had a large grey beard, and wore leather no matter what the weather was like. His house was like a garage, with spare parts and tools scattered everywhere. His pride and joy sat in his backyard, a Harley Davidson heritage softail classic, which he occasionally rode around the streets and would take to conventions and shows. He was basically a north-western 47 year old hells angel.
Fang was his alarm. At nigh on 7am, the dog would go into Georges bedroom, jump on the bed, and wake him up by licking his face. Half an hour later, they would be out in the park. This morning, George was forced to wear a rain coat, beneath which was his well worn leather jacket. The dog didnt seem to notice the rain. Sometimes he would meet other dog walkers and not end up back in the house for three hours or more. Today, he knew he wouldnt be out for too long. The others had probably decided that there was no way they were going out in that, no matter how much their dogs whined.
Further into the park they walked, George walking slowly, as per usual as Fang always explored everything as though he was seeing it for the first time. He was sniffing around bushes. George saw that up ahead, the path curved to the left, and on one of two opposite benches, somebody was lying on the left one. George frowned and walked towards them. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a teenage boy, old enough to still be called a boy, but not quite old enough to be called a man. He was however, nearly of that age. It was though he was dead, wearing a white shirt and going out trousers. George just stared at him, watching as the rain lashe

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