The Rescue (17 page)

‘Find out where the weapons are held,’ Carson hissed in my ear.

I’m not going to hurt you
, I thought-spoke, trying to calm Tsonga down.
Carson just wants information. Where are the weapons?

No
. . .
no
. . .
no
. . . Another explosion of terrified fury.
Please, no. Do not ask this. I cannot tell you.

I broke the connection and turned to Carson.

‘Well?’

‘He can’t tell me,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know.’

Carson swore. In a swift move he grabbed my shirt under the neck and bunched it in a fist that pressed into my chin. ‘Enough pissing about,’ he said. ‘I know what you can do. Get inside his head and find out where the weapons are. Which village. Which house. How well protected . . .’ He shoved me away and pressed his gun against my head again. There was a loud click as he cocked it.

Heart pounding so loudly it seemed to echo round the tiny room, I turned back to Tsonga. He was staring down at the table, rocking back and forth.

Carson signalled to the guard, who came over and forced Tsonga’s head up. I met his eyes.

Please, please, please
. . . the earlier fury was now mostly fear.

I’m sorry but you have to tell me where the weapons are.

I can’t, you don’t understand. My brother is hiding them. And if they find him, they will kill him – and his family and my
. . .
my little girl. We need these weapons to fight back against Djounsou’s army. Please, please help me.

I badly wanted to break the connection, to refuse Carson. It was evil, forcing this man to reveal information that would hurt his family. And whoever this Djounsou was, I was certain that he needed fighting against. I felt sick to my stomach, yet what could I do? Ketty, Dylan, Nico and Luz’s lives were in danger if I
didn’t
do it.

‘Find the information I need, Ed,’ Carson hissed in my ear, clearly sensing my thoughts, ‘or your friends die . . . one by one.’

I steeled myself, focusing fully on Tsonga.

I’m sorry
, I thought-spoke.

Please, think of my daughter, Victoria. She is only five. Please, I beg you.

I’m sorry.
I dived into Tsonga’s mind. After my experience reading minds in the Spanish bar, I had learned to hold less tightly to the concrete thoughts I came across and to let my instinct guide me – to try less, in a way, while remaining completely focused. In moments I’d probed deeper into his thoughts and feelings.

My sense that he was a good person was only reinforced. I saw great loss – his wife and their second child had died in childbirth. There was also anger at Carson and his bullying and – far more powerful – fury at the man he’d mentioned before, Djounsou. Plus exhaustion . . . and physical pain . . . and a strong religious faith.

Where are the weapons?
I thought-spoke, keeping my communication as calm as possible. I could feel Tsonga’s panic rising.

No, no, no.
Mahore.
No.
My brother.
No . . .
Church, St Luke’s , cellar.
No, no, no
. . .

I sighed. It was always the same. As soon as people knew what you wanted, what they
mustn’t
think about, that was always the very thing that thrust itself to the front of their minds. But I didn’t need to tell Carson the whole story. If I told him the overall place, but gave a different specific location for the weapons, Tsonga’s brother might have time to see Carson’s men coming and get to safety.

‘Mahore,’ I said out loud.

Noooo.
Inside Tsonga’s head something had broken. Like glass that had cracked and shattered.
I am betraying them, oh God, please help me.

It’s okay
, I tried to reassure him,
I won’t say where the weapons are or who’s responsible.

You don’t understand.

‘How well are the guns protected?’ Carson asked, his voice tight with excitement. ‘Where are they hidden?’

What shall I say?
I thought-spoke.

I waited while Tsonga gathered himself.

Tell him the guns are hidden in a hut on the road out of town going west. The hut is on the outskirts of town – it has a
. . .
a blue painted wall and a red flag on the roof.

I repeated this information.

‘How is this hut guarded?’ Carson said.

Tell him several men take turns. Usually there are two at the hut at any time.

Again, I repeated the information Tsonga gave me.

‘But you should know that they change the location of the hiding place all the time,’ I added, pleased with myself for having come up with such a clever way of covering myself, while still protecting Tsonga and his family. ‘By the time you reach the hut, the weapons may have been moved.’

I broke the connection.

‘Good,’ Carson said. ‘Good work. You can go now.’ He signalled to the guard to take me away.

‘You won’t hurt him any more?’ I asked.

‘No, if you’ve passed on the information you saw correctly, there’ll be no need for him to feel more pain.’ Carson narrowed his eyes. ‘In fact, there’ll be no reason for him to feel anything any more.’

17: Communication

The guard pushed me out of the room and back into my own. I sank down on the bed, my head in my hands. Did that comment about Tsonga not feeling ‘anything any more’ mean Carson was planning to kill him?

I looked up, determined to try remote telepathy again. If I’d managed that brief connection with Ketty, then surely if I practised a bit more I’d be able to reach Geri and explain what had happened so she could come here, rescue us
and
save Tsonga and his family. But before I could begin to focus on Geri’s face, the guard knocked me out with another injection.

I had no idea what time it was when I finally woke up, but my room was in darkness, though the air was barely less stifling. I was lying on the camp bed, as before. I turned and looked at the door, my head throbbing with every movement. A tiny camera I hadn’t noticed before was positioned just above the door, the lens pointing towards the bed. I blinked. Was
that
how Carson had known I was conscious earlier? I quickly closed my eyes again. Even in my fuggy state, I was aware that I had to buy myself enough time to clear my head and attempt to communicate telepathically with Geri.

A few minutes passed. I lay awake, concentrating on keeping my breathing deep and steady. I was desperately thirsty – my mouth felt dry and swollen – and hunger gnawed at my stomach, but I didn’t dare look round to see if Carson had left any food or drink in the room. I kept my eyes closed as my head slowly settled and cleared, then started to picture Geri Paterson’s face – her piercing birdlike eyes, delicate-featured face and sharply-cut blonde bob. I slowed my breathing and really focused – but nothing happened. I waited, trying not to push it, knowing that half the skill of remote telepathy was in the
not
trying. But still nothing came.

I let out a long sigh. Maybe my head was still too fuzzy. Maybe Geri was simply too far away. Or maybe I didn’t have a strong enough emotional connection with her to make a telepathic connection work.

This last thought took me to Ketty . . . and to Luz. Would Carson let Luz go? I couldn’t imagine he would. And yet what use could he possibly have for a poor Spanish girl from a care home? My stomach twisted as I thought of the terrible danger I’d put her in – a thought which led me back to Tsonga and his fear for his family which led me, inevitably, to my own mum and dad. I’d tried, for the past day or two, not to think about them at all, but now it was as if all the thoughts I’d been pushing away were insisting on rushing back.

Almost without acknowledging what I was doing, I focused on Mum’s face – her lined forehead and short, greying hair. She’s not my real mum, of course, so we don’t look anything alike, but I know I’ve picked up a lot of her expressions. We both share a slightly anxious look behind the eyes, and there’s definitely a tightness in the way we smile sometimes.

I concentrated harder, again trying not to push too hard at making the connection.

Nothing.

Misery welled up from my guts. I squeezed my eyes tight shut.
Keep trying
, I said to myself. I moved on to Dad, focusing on his sandy hair, ruddy face and blue eyes. Still nothing.

It was dark outside. Even through closed eyes, I could tell that the dim light which had filtered in from the single high window earlier on had now completely disappeared. Fighting the despair that filled me, I thought of my sisters. Amy, with the same blue eyes as our dad, and little Kim, who looked just like her mum.

At first I moved between them, unable to settle, then I fixed on Amy. She was twelve now and, to be honest, I didn’t feel I knew her very well any more. When I left home to go to Fox Academy she was all into her new friends at St Michael’s – the girls’ Catholic grammar school she’d started at last autumn – and we didn’t talk that much. As Mum said, Amy only seemed to have three topics of conversation: her friends, her music and how much she hated everything about her new school – from the overstrict teachers to the minging purple uniform.

Still, we’d been close when we were little. And I couldn’t think of anyone else to try. So I steadied my breathing again and focused on Amy’s face – wide eyes, arched brows and high cheekbones – all framed by her thick, chestnut-coloured hair.

At first nothing happened. I knew I was pushing at the connection . . . trying too hard. I sighed, half giving up, just idly thinking about Amy . . . the shape of her face . . . her eyes . . . And then I felt a flicker . . . that strange sense I’d had before, with Ketty, that I was fading in and out of someone else’s mind.

I let myself go with the sensation, trying to ride it like a wave. With a sudden ‘whoosh’ I found myself sucked into Amy’s head.
Whoa.
This was a far stronger, more solid connection than I’d had during remote telepathy with Ketty.

I sensed Amy feel my presence and start to panic.

Hey, Amy
, I thought-spoke.
It’s me, Ed.
I stopped, unsure what to say next and overwhelmed by the tornado of emotion rushing round Amy’s head. I wasn’t certain it was all brought on by my sudden entrance into her brain, either. God, how did she cope with that level of hysteria on a permanent basis?

Ed?
Her thought-speech was pitched almost at a shriek.
Oh. My. God. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmi—

Calm down, Amy. Listen, I don’t have much time.

But you’re there
. . .
here
. . .
how? Mum and Dad said you were in trouble and you’d gone away to some
. . .
I dunno
. . .
it sounded like a prison, though it can’t be worse than here. Mum actually grounded me for my phone running out of power yesterday—

Amy, listen—

It’s
so
unfair, she’s always picking on me and she’s been going on about keeping quiet about you as well, like I’m some stupid
. . .
oh my God I can’t believe it’s you, I mean how are you
doing
this?

Slow down.
In spite of my terrible predicament, I was almost laughing at Amy’s outburst. Her mind overran with a feverish imagination. Thoughts and feelings sparked out of nowhere. I caught glimpses of feuds and tears and every intense emotion imaginable – all simmering just out of plain view.

But what’s going on, Ed, how is this happening?

Ask Mum and Dad about Medusa, they’ll explain everything
, I thought-spoke, feeling guilty. Mum and Dad had insisted that the girls shouldn’t know about the Medusa gene – that it was too weird and upsetting for them. Still, what choice did I have?

Is this
. . .
this mind-reading real? How do I know I’m not imagining you?

You’re not imagining anything. I’m Ed – if you don’t believe me, check my bedroom – you’ll find a shoebox in the wardrobe. If you look right at the bottom, you’ll see my old chess set. Three of the pawns – that’s the littlest figures – are missing. There’s no way anyone else knows about that, okay?

Okay, I’ll check, but how are you doing this? How long have you been able to?

A while. It’s why I went away to that boarding school.

Is it why you’re in trouble now?

Sort of. Look, Amy, I don’t have time to explain everything right now. I need you to tell Mum and Dad I’ve contacted you. I don’t know where I am, but it’s somewhere in North Africa, and I’m a prisoner
. . .
we all are
. . .

A prisoner! Who’s ‘we’, for God’s sake? Ed, this can’t be happening.

It is. Check my chess set. Listen. There are four of us. Mum and Dad know about some of it. You have to tell them to contact Geri Paterson—

Who?

Her name is Geri Paterson. They’ll know how to get hold of her. You need to pass on this message – that the four of us are being held prisoner by Blake Carson, somewhere in North Africa, and she has to track him down and get us out. I’ll contact you again in a few hours and—