Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1) (11 page)

Doctor Smith picked up the vial and looked at it. “I tested the stuff you gave me.”

Michael took the vial from him and turned it over to read the label. It said:
CLINIC #1. 50ml. Serial no. 537986B
. It was the same vial, now with only a dribble left in the bottom. “This is what I took. It’s what they were injecting into perceivers, I swear.”

“What if,” said Doctor Smith. “They
are
using that drug, but
that
drug isn’t the cure.”

“What do you mean?” said Otis.

“The teenagers get injected with Midazolam,” he replied. “It makes them drowsy and compliant, then the doctors at the clinic carry out a second procedure. It’s that second procedure that actually cures them of perception.”

Michael sat, dumbfounded, letting the words sink in. It made sense. The injection was a smokescreen. Whatever the cure was, it was something the doctors wanted to keep secret. That was why the injections couldn’t be given by ordinary doctors in ordinary hospitals and GP surgeries. It’s why there were so few clinics. It was easier to keep the secret the fewer people knew about it.

It also meant they were no closer to finding out what the cure really was.

Otis picked up the printout, thanked his father and headed for the door. Michael was about to follow him when Doctor Smith pulled him back. Michael tensed at his grasp. He looked at the man’s fingers digging into his arm. It scared him a little, but the man didn’t look like he was going to hurt him.

“How is he? Honestly?” asked Doctor Smith, his voice quiet so Otis wouldn’t hear.

“Otis?” Michael didn’t know what to say. He shared a flat with the teenager, but he didn’t really know him. “He’s all right. I think.”

Otis’s voice came booming down the corridor. “Michael, are you coming or what?”

“Yeah,” Michael called back. He went to go, but Doctor Smith was still holding his arm.

“He knows he can come to me if he’s in trouble, doesn’t he?” said Doctor Smith. “He knows me and his mother worry about him?”

Michael looked at the man’s face. He wondered what had happened to keep the two of them apart. “He’s a perceiver,” he said. “I’m sure he knows.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“SO,” SAID MICHAEL
as they got into Otis’s car, “are we going straight back to London,
Oliver
?”

“Don’t call me that,” said Otis.

Michael grinned at his discomfort. “Why not? It’s your name isn’t it?”

“If you really want to know, my name is Oliver Terrence Ian Smith. My initials spell Otis – and that’s what you’re gonna call me, unless you want my fist to rearrange your face.”

Otis started up the car. They drove out of Chatham, back to the A2 and towards London. Music blared out of the car stereo, most of it by a band called The White Rhinos. Otis tapped the steering wheel with the fingers of one hand and, after a while, started to sing along. Michael found some of the lyrics were in his head. He joined in. Much of the journey back was spent singing.

They got to the flat to find Jennifer sitting on the sofa reading a book on her phone. She put it aside when they entered.

“You wanna beer, Mike mate?” said Otis, going into the kitchen.

He’d never offered Michael a beer before. Otis kept a few cans in the fridge, but Michael always thought it was better to leave them alone. “Sure.”

“My mouth’s so dry, it feels like my tongue’s licked a camel’s arse,” said Otis.

Jennifer came over to them. “Did you guys hear the news?”

“No,” said Otis, passing a can of beer to Michael. He yanked back the ring pull and it opened with a
fitz
.

“We were listening to The White Rhinos,” said Michael.

They both spontaneously broke into the chorus of one of the tracks: “
My wounded baby, don’t you turn away from me!
” They burst into laughter as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

But Jennifer wasn’t laughing. “Can’t you perceive I’m being serious? They named the two teenagers who died in the school fight. They were norms.”

“Oh,” said Otis.

“And that’s not the end of it.” She went back to the lounge and turned on the TV. Using her phone, she streamed video footage onto the screen:

Prime Minister John Pankhurst stood outside 10 Downing Street, surrounded by microphones in fluffy covers. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt, but his normal bright tie was replaced with one of deep brown with a light blue stripe. It was windy outside and, as he brushed his unnaturally brown hair from his face, it was possible to see its grey roots.

He adopted the remorseful face he used for tragic occasions. “I wanted to say on behalf of the country, how saddened I am by the playground violence in Romford in Essex. My sympathies go out to the families of the children who died and my prayers are with those who were injured. This is a tragedy that I am determined should not happen again. The hatred and fear generated in this country by perceivers is unacceptable. It is driving a wedge between communities. Our schools have become battlegrounds. Families are being torn apart. This situation cannot be allowed to continue.

“My government and I have, therefore, decided to bring in a series of measures to ensure the law abiding citizens of this country are protected from perceivers. The cure that is currently being offered to people on a voluntary basis will now be made compulsory. To help facilitate this, I will be increasing the number of clinics where treatment can be received and putting more resources into training staff to service these clinics. In addition, testing in schools will become more widespread and comprehensive. It is my belief that, if we all work together, this country can once again be free of perception – and communities, schools and families will be able to resume their lives, free of fear and hatred.”

The Prime Minister’s face froze in an expression of feigned concern.

Jennifer had pressed pause.

“Bastard,” she said.

Otis put his arm around her. She relaxed into his body and allowed her head to rest on his chest. She clung onto his waist like a lost child. He touched her hair, but it seemed to do nothing to comfort her.

Michael turned away, feeling he was intruding on a private moment. They were perceivers. He was a norm. They were the ones who had just been named as the national enemy. Whatever he might have been in the past, he couldn’t share in their fear. Jennifer and Otis had woken up that morning as free citizens. They would go to bed that night more or less as wanted criminals.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GAVIN SWANKLER CROSSED
his legs on the red sofa and turned to camera. “Welcome back to Sunday Morning with Gavin Swankler. Joining me on the sofa is the Chair of Action Against Mind Invasion, Claudia Angelheart …”

The image cut to a wide shot to show Claudia Angelheart, whose excessive make-up looked clown-like under studio lights. She nodded and smiled at him.

“… And, of course, Dave Malik MP is still here.”

There was a close-up of a man in a formal brown suit on the sofa next to Angelheart. He didn’t seem to be aware that he was on camera and was looking off in a completely different direction.

“Mrs Angelheart, you’re going to help us review the papers later, but first I have to ask – do you think we’re winning the fight against perceivers?”

“No, Gavin, I don’t …”

The camera moved in close on Angelheart:

“… I commend the Prime Minister’s tough stance against perceivers, I really do, but what exactly has he done since he told us he would take definitive action?”

“If I could just say—” Malik butted in. “The Prime Minister has gone to great lengths …”

In the wide shot it was possible to see Angelheart put her hand on Malik’s knee. “Excuse me, dear, but you’ve already been interviewed. This is my turn, if you don’t mind.”

Malik looked affronted.

Angelheart removed her hand as if she had touched something unpleasant, and turned to Gavin with a smile. “As I was saying, the Prime Minister has failed to act on his promises. We were told we would get more clinics – where are they? We were promised more trained staff to fill them – where are they? I can’t tell you, Gavin, how many hours I’m at my computer replying to parents who are at the end of their tether trying to get their teenagers cured. Promises aren’t good enough, we need action from the government now. If not, I fear that people are desperate enough to take matters into their own hands …”

~

MICHAEL LOOKED OUT
of the window of the cafe at the head offices of Ransom Incorporated. The vast block of concrete and glass stood tall and powerful. Even sitting across the street, cradling a glass of iced lemonade, it seemed to dominate.

“Stop staring,” said Jennifer.

Michael blinked away and looked across the table. Steam rose from Jennifer’s coffee cup and curled up in front of her face. The strong, black bitterness of her drink eclipsed the smell of food from the people eating lunch around them. Most appeared to be office workers out for a quick bite before returning to business.

Jennifer could almost be one of them. She was dressed in the suit Otis had picked out for her. Her dark navy jacket and skirt were set off with a white collarless top and a silver necklace that sparkled its tiny cut glass pendant as she turned under the light. The clothes were a little big for her, but they made her look smart and presentable, if a little young to be wearing them.

Michael also had on a suit. It was the most uncomfortable thing he remembered ever wearing. Otis had insisted he wear a tie. The cloth around his neck felt so tight it almost choked the breath out of him. The trousers were loose fitting and made of some sort of polyester-type material that had none of the comfort of his usual jeans. The smooth, nylon lining of the jacket rustled when he moved and caused static which gave him a jolt any time he touched metal. How men spent their whole working lives dressed like that without going insane mystified him.

Jennifer looked up from her coffee. Michael turned to see what she was looking at. Otis entered, looking quite the part in a black suit with subtle brown stripes and a white open-necked shirt. With his hair brushed neatly in a side parting, he looked a different man.

“Got them,” whispered Otis as he sat down next to Jennifer. He reached covertly under the table and placed something on Michael’s lap. Michael’s fingers found the smooth, flat, rectangular shape of a security pass, with its metal clasp at the top. He took a peek. A ghastly photo of his own face stared back at him. Above it, written in red, were the words:
Ransom Incorporated
.

Step one of Otis’s plan was complete. The passes had been copied from one Otis had stolen earlier that day from an employee he passed in the street. It didn’t take him long to rustle up new ones with photos and false names.

“Ready?” said Otis.

“Yes,” said Jennifer.

“Your friend better be right about this Ransom character,” he said.

“She is.”

They pinned the fake passes to their lapels, left the cafe and crossed the road.

Otis, Michael and Jennifer weaved themselves in among the suited office staff coming and going on their lunch break; whirling in the revolving doors at the entrance with blank expressions, like adults who didn’t want to get on the fairground ride in the first place.

Their disguise worked! No one paid any attention to three people dressed – like everyone else – in suits with security passes pinned to their lapels.

Beyond the revolving door was a large reception desk. As grand and imposing as the building itself. Projecting power. Emphasising how small and insignificant Michael was compared to the corporation. Beside it was the security barrier: two metal arches seven foot high, topped with a red and a green light, and flanked by two security guards in brown uniforms with black ties.

Michael’s stomach cramped.

He watched a suited man carry a mug of takeaway coffee through the arch. The green light lit up and the security guards paid him no attention. This was the most difficult obstacle. According to Otis, the security passes included a computerised electronic chip which was detected by the arches. A green light meant the person was security cleared and could enter. A red light meant the opposite.

Michael self-consciously adjusted the pass on his lapel and hung back while Otis and Jennifer went on ahead of him. Not that he doubted Otis’s ability to copy the chip, he just wanted to make sure it worked. He put his hands in his trouser pocket and crossed his fingers where no one could see them.

Otis walked through first. A green light. Approved.

A few steps behind, Jennifer followed. A red light.

Michael tensed. She shot a giveaway worried look behind at Michael. But the guard looked bored and didn’t say anything. He waved to her to try again. Jennifer took two steps backwards. She waited for a signal from him. He waved her forward. A green light! Michael let out the breath he’d been holding.