ࡱ> AC@7 8bjbjUU `N7|7|4l4 <)ZZZZZZZZ ?ZZZZZnZZnnnZ ZZnZnRnZN wd  0)nn PREDICTIONS... THE AMBULANCEMEN 14/07/1994. 10:30 The book had said today. But it hadn't happened yet. There was a downpour in progress. Thunder rattled the sky above the city of London as people caught out in the streets rushed to find cover. The rain pounded onto the smoothly worn pavements and lightning lit up the dark cloudy sky to complete the terrifying effect as thousands of wretched souls cursed the Met' Office. All this in the middle of July. The weathermen had gotten it completely wrong again. The ambulance sat incongruously in the quiet street corner. The bright eye-catching colours contrasted sharply with the faded red brickwork of the ancient Victorian museum as it's two very bored operators sat looking out through the misted windows at the rain beyond. The overburdened leaky drainpipes of the museum's guttering poured gallons of water per second out into the old cobbled street as the thunder rattled the leaded windows of the building. The book had said today. What do you reckon about this guy then?" asked the ambulance driver, thoughtfully munching on a packet of Cheese and Onion crisps. He would kill his wife. He hated Cheese and Onion and she knew it. "Bloody nutter ain't he?" replied the other man looking up from his paper. He ticked off one of the clues on the Sun Crossword and read out the next. "Alien creature from the planet Skaro. Five letters, ending in 'K'." "Too right." said the first man in response to his companion's answer. "Still, he's paying and that suits me just fine. Erm, Dalek." "Oh yeah." said the co-driver and he ticked off another clue and filled in the answer on the grid. The rain pattered down on the metal roof of the ambulance and the leaky drainpipes of the museum continued to pour water all over the road. "Ey up, there he is". The driver looked up to see a black Rolls Royce emerge from the museum entrance and head off down the road. The ambulance's diesel engine was cranked into life and the vehicle followed the jet-black executive car into and down the main road at a safe distance all the way. This was the job that they had been paid to do. For one day only. The book had said today. But it hadn't happened yet. THE BUSINESSMAN 14/07/1994. 10:38 Peter Cartwright sat in the back of his Rolls Royce and shivered. He pulled his raincoat up over his shoulders more and quickly looked back out of the window to see if they were still following him. They were. The Ambulancemen in their brilliantly coloured vehicle. His newest employees, for one day only. The book had said today. But it hadn't happened yet. Peter shivered once more and tried to concentrate on the documents he had on his lap. The museum was his newest investment, but he was going to have to do a lot of shaking around if it was going to start making a profit. Starting with the staff. Morale was low and their work was suffering as a result. He would have to see about that. Perhaps a pay rise would cheer them up? After he had vetted them all of course. He didn't want to keep people on for the sake of it and he had detected a distinct sense of hostility from some departments towards his acquiring the museum at such an incredibly low price. Even if he had effectively saved the place from imminent closure. Never mind the fact that he was going to make a massive loss on the place for, conceivably, the next ten years. These people just didn't know when a bit of gratitude should be expressed. No, first he would cut out the dead wood. As little as possible. He didn't really want to lose experienced staff who knew what they had and who knew what they were doing, but if they didn't respect him as their new boss, they would have to go. Then he would... The book had said today. He shivered again. It was no good; he couldn't keep his mind on the job in hand. He leant forward and tapped on the glass separating him from the driver's compartment. His Chauffeur switched on the intercom. "Yes Mr. Cartwright?" "Put the heating on a bit higher if you please." "Certainly sir." Hot air blasted out from the floor, but Cartwright still shivered. Not in cold then. In fear. He had to admit it, he was afraid. The book had said today. But it hadn't happened yet. It had all started twenty-two years previously, when Peter Cartwright had hired a psychic to help him predict the market... THE PSYCHIC Peter Cartwright was a fair man. Everyone knew that. He wasn't like some of the other people in the city today, cruel and heartless like the infamous (and late) Charles Philpott and others. He was thoughtful towards his many thousands of employees, generous with bonuses and promotions and a fair man to work for generally. The thing was, he could afford to be. Because Peter Cartwright had spent twenty years building up such a massive business empire and made himself such a fortune that he could afford to relax and allow himself to be kinder to his employees than others could because he was so sure of his place in the city's markets today. His empire had gone from strength to strength, never once taking a false step, never once faltering. Few suspected what made him so confident. Few suspected why he was such a kind man with such self-assuredness and a general air of confidence. Few would have believed it anyway. 14/02/1972. 23:27 Peter Cartwright was nervous. He wasn't sure what he was doing here. He wasn't sure if what he was doing was right. He wasn't sure if what he was doing would work. The Manager of a small local provincial Building Society started by his grandfather some eighty years previously, Cartwright was a mere twenty-three years of age. He was also ambitious, greedy, willing to try anything to give himself a boost up the ladder. It was this greed that had led him to this place. The place was a dingy block of nineteen-sixties designed flats situated in one of the many sprawling suburbs of London. Cartwright stood looking up at the block, building up the courage to go inside. The place stank of urine and every now and then, drunkards would wander into his line of sight, having been recently expelled (probably forcibly) from the local pub'. In Cartwright's eyes, this place was hell on earth. But if he wanted to know what he had come to find out, he would have to go inside sooner or later. Might as well be now then. He had waited ten minutes for the lift, reading the graffiti before some old lady had informed him with a smirk that the lifts were out of order and had been for the last six years. Cartwright had sighed, swallowed his pride and proceeded up the many flights of damp stairs (damp with God knows what) to the fifteenth storey where someone was waiting for him. In the shadows. "You the one? The business man?" The term was spat out in contempt. "Yes. And I've got the money." "Got the money? Well come on in then." Three thousand pounds it had cost him initially. Three thousand pounds for this supposed psychic to give him detailed information on the city's stock exchange for the next thirty years. He was sceptical at first, but every single trend was predicted in minute detail. Every single share was given a precise future history, dates to buy, dates to sell, and dates to avoid altogether... He had taken it all down in his tidy writing in a little blue book he had brought along for the purpose. What the psychic had told him he would get, he got. And more... Detailed yearly plans followed, all derived from the blue book. Further visits to the psychic with vast sums of extra money yielded business plans so complex that no one could stand up against his apparent "good fortune". He had become the dominant force in the market, and all because of his blue book. He just wished she hadn't told him of one particular date. The date of his death. 14/07/1994 That date was embedded in his mind from the moment she told him onwards. He hadn't asked for the information, she had thrust it upon him during one of her more stressed-out sessions, grabbing his arm fiercely and spitting the information in his face. He had written it down in his book along with all the other information. He had had himself checked out by the most expensive Harley Street Doctor's in anticipation of the date itself. He had taken every precaution to try and avoid the event itself. But she had told him one thing. "You can't cheat fate". And he was inclined to agree with her. He was making money based on her predictions, vast sums of money because she was never wrong. What were the chances of her being wrong just the once? Pretty low. Even so, he thought he would try and buck the prediction. Like bucking the market, it would take a bit of ingenuity. So he hired himself an ambulance for the day, to follow him around whilst he did his daily deals. Pretty simple solution he thought. THE OLD GENTLEMAN 14/07/1994. 11:14 The book had said today. But it hadn't happened yet. Cartwright pressed the "Call End" button on his mobile telephone with a small bleep and placed it back in his pocket. There, it was done. All of his appointments had been cancelled for the day and he was free to go home. No sense in taking any more chances. He wasn't sure really why he had come out today in the first place, but his love for the museum that was now his had overridden all caution. Foolish. The book had said today... He relaxed in the back seat of his executive car, all shivers now gone. The Chauffeur was under instructions to get him home as soon as possible where he could relax. That is, as quickly as possible without taking any stupid risks with the traffic. Once home, he could send the Ambulancemen away and ride out the rest of the day asleep, safe in the knowledge that this was one prediction he had beaten. Cartwright spent the journey through the dense London traffic looking out of the window to the rain that battered the city without mercy. He suddenly realised that he hadn't been to the office that day and he hadn't seen the paper. He wanted to know how much money he had made that day. He knew he had made a lot, there was never a day when he didn't and he certainly wouldn't have lost any. Not with the book... He spied a newspaper vendor on a street corner. Can we stop here please, I want to get a paper." The ambulance halted behind the black Rolls Royce at the side of the road as it's passenger quickly jumped out of the back and ran over the road to the Newsagent's, with his coat pulled up over his head. "Now what's he doing?" "Don't know..." mused the ambulance driver thoughtfully to his companion. He had seen something up in the distance. An old man who was trying to cross the road... "Fuck me!!" shouted the co-driver as he watched the old man disappear under the front wheels of a speeding taxicab. "What do we do?" asked the driver indecisively. "GO GO GO!!" shouted his friend, looking at the driver in horror. "But we've..." there was a tap on the window from a pedestrian outside. "What are you guys waiting for for Christ's sake? Go and help the old bloke!! Go on, move it!!" The driver needed no further prompting and he gunned the engine, switched on the lights and the sirens and pulled away from the side of the road... ...just as Peter Cartwright completed his transaction with the newspaper seller and headed back to his black Rolls Royce parked on the far side of the road. He ran across to the car with his coat still pulled over his head to keep the rain out, oblivious to the presence of the moving ambulance. The ambulance smashed into Cartwright at thirty miles an hour with the crack of splintering bones, sending up a spray of blood into the air. Cartwright did a treble somersault in mid-air and landed on the roadside with a sickening crunch. The passers-by all looked in horror as the Ambulancemen slammed on the brakes and the vehicle collided with a stationary bus. Someone ran out from the pavement on the other side of the road as people screamed in alarm. Cartwright's body lay quite still on the paving stones... THE MEDIC As the ambulance finally screeched to a halt some three hundred yards away, the woman who had rushed out from the crowd crouched to examine Cartwright's bruised and smashed body. Someone in the crowd stepped forward and shielded the two of them with a black umbrella. "It's alright, I'm a Doctor" said the lady, flashing some ID at the assembled throng. She looked into Cartwright's bloody eyes before closing them gently with her slender fingers. She proceeded to tilt the crushed head and she noticed with a murmur that the neck had been cleanly snapped in two and that furthermore, the man's vertebrae was smashed in several places. His limbs were fractured, he had massive internal bleeding and his lungs and stomach had been ruptured. His heart had stopped dead. It was no good. Nothing could be done for him. "He's dead" she announced solemnly to the hushed crowd, pulling the dead man's raincoat over his face. By the side of the lifeless body was a small blue book that lay in the gutter, soaking up water. Unnoticed by anyone, the blue ink was washed away with the rain, into the city's sewers. A potential fortune now so much rainwater. The book had said today. And it had happened today. You can't cheat fate. 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