39
Curio watched contentedly as a Land rover pulled out of the car-park, and drove away out of sight. It was driven by the journalist from ‘Lazy days’ who had been to interview him and take pictures. He had tidied the flat to the best of his ability, which had basically meant going over the well-worn carpet with a cheap, pre-owned hand-held hoover, and giving the coffee table a quick wipe with a cloth. The man had taken several pictures of him in various positions, and had questioned him about his psychic detection.
Curio had mentioned the other aspects of his talents as well, and it was all written down by the journalist who seemed genuinely interested. With national distribution he hoped the phone would ring more often, yet, he knew he had to get himself transport. Perhaps until he did, he wondered, only do readings with those people who were willing to travel up to the North-West. Where to meet though, that was a problem.
He thought about enquiring into whether he should find premises to do his readings, set himself up with a little stall somewhere. There was also the predicament he would have regarding his rent. At present, because he was receiving jobseekers allowance, his rent was paid for by housing benefit, but should he ask for more assistance in setting himself up with premises, then he knew the benefits agency would discover his added income.
His allowance may be stopped altogether or reduced. He would cross that bridge if it came, he thought, but with such publicity as this, his aspirations where enhanced by his further success, and the time, he hoped was coming closer when he could finally leave this ‘fucking dump’, as he often thought of it.
His prestige he knew was increasing, as was his talent, and he hoped to make enough money soon to buy himself driving lessons to pass the test to buy a cheap second-hand runaround which would mean more access to more clients. How he wished he’d kept his lessons up before entering university. He wondered where he would be now if he had. Living in a posh house? Mingling with celebrities? Still, he thought, turning around and sitting at his computer, there was plenty of time to enjoy the kudos that his eminence would bring.
After a few minutes, he was reading through the ‘Uncanny kingdoms’ message board, but found no response to his request for information regarding the book he was intending to write proving the reality of the paranormal. He had decided to put that on hold for a while until he was more practised and further understood the forces and energies he was dealing with. Checking his email, he saw that he had two new messages. One from an electrical company with new special offers. The other from Ribbet.
Before he opened it, he stood up and walked into the kitchen and put two slices of bread in a toaster he had bought three months ago from a market. He had an hour before another reading, a Mr P. Merryll who was half an hour’s bus ride away. After a few minutes, he was sat back at his computer, opening Ribbet’s email and crunching toast. ‘Dear Curio,
I think I have reached my limit. I have regressed to all the previous lives I once had. There must have been around fifteen. Everytime I try now, there is darkness. The one thing I understand they all had in common was the pleasure I had in causing harm to others. Yet, I did not deliberately seek to do this. I suppose I just get a little heavy-handed at times. Sometimes if somebody looks at me in a strange way, or if they bump into me, I get so irritated. I used to be a night-club bouncer, but it got to be quite exhaustive, and I was sacked. Sacked? Well I’ll have to give credit to the fella that told me this, but he still ended up in hospital in intensive care. Is this going to be my legacy Curio? When I die, am I still going to have these tendencies in the next life? The strange thing is, I hope I do, but I don’t know why. They say I’m here for my own safety and the safety of others, but I heard a rumour that changes are being made, and that there are going to be transfers. Those on best behaviour, like me, will have a good chance of being released, and when that happens, I’ll be able to come and visit you, Curio. I’d like that. We can chat away and discuss ideas. If I am right, then could you send me your address. I hope to hear from you, and see you soon.
Yours
Ribbet.’
Curio shook his head. No way, No way, he thought. A prisoner with violent tendencies. There’s nothing to think about. He typed his reply:
‘Dear Ribbet,
Yes, In the next life you probably will have these kinds of tendencies again, as you obviously have now. I would like to thank-you Ribbet for sharing your experiences with me, and hope that one day you do not feel like harming anybody. Perhaps whoever locked you away was right, and you need to stay where you are for the safety of others. I would prefer it if you did not meet with me, and I choose not to send you my address. In fact, please do not email me again. Thank-you, Curio’.
He clicked ‘send’, shook his head again, wondering where Ribbet was. Was he in another country? or just a few miles away? That was an interesting facet of the internet, he thought, the fact that you could communicate with anybody across the globe within seconds. Maybe Ribbet was playing with him, and was in the flat above, giggling over his keyboard. He did not know any of his neighbours, and would not recognise most of them if he passed them in the street.
His instinct told him that Ribbet was real. He was a psychopath who had been rewarded for his good behaviour. ‘Alright Ribbet, we’ll let you use a computer’. ‘Ok, we’ll let you film yourself regressing, but don’t forget your tablets when you're done’. He hoped never to see Ribbet. He was another ‘voice’ in cyberspace, another faceless individual hiding behind the screen, playing the tough guy, when in reality, he was probably a spotty, dribbling little boy with absolutely nothing better to do. Curio hoped he was, and not the image of a red faced, muscle bound, tattooed thug he had in mind.
He shut down the computer, and stood at the window, looking down at a man with a car bonnet up, looking confused at the intricate workings of the engine. The crunch of toast was the only sound in his flat.