The Rescue (7 page)

‘So . . .’ Fernandez went on. ‘Can you tell what I’m thinking all the time? Or just when you look at me?’

There was no point in pretending any more.

‘Only when I look at you,’ I said. There was a pause. I took a deep breath. ‘Why?’

Fernandez changed gear to negotiate a particularly rocky stretch of road.

‘You’ll see in two hours,’ he said, a nasty smile creeping across his face. ‘You’ll see.’

6: The show

What on earth was Fernandez planning? I sat back, feeling anxious, as shadows spread across the desert and Camp Felicidad became a tiny white dot in the rear-view mirror.

Half an hour passed. The heat of the day eased and the sun sank quickly in the sky. So far we hadn’t passed a single car or building. And then Fernandez rounded a bend and a petrol station came into view. He pulled up at one of the pumps. A boy came running out.

‘Hola, senor.’

‘Hola.’ Fernandez jumped down from the jeep, a long stream of Spanish that I couldn’t follow issuing from his mouth.

I sat back as the boy darted over to the petrol pump and unwound the hose. Fernandez locked me in and disappeared inside the corrugated-iron-roofed hut across the forecourt. A breeze through the tiny slit he’d left open in the window of the jeep felt cool against my hot face. I turned. The boy was busy filling up the car. I half-thought of banging on the window to attract his attention . . . pleading with him to help me escape . . . but before the thought had fully formed in my mind, Fernandez was back.

He strode towards the jeep, unlocking it as he marched. He paused to thank the boy, pressing a few coins into his palm, then jumped into the jeep and pulled away.

I wanted to ask again where we were going, but there seemed little point.

‘Permission to speak?’ I said.

‘Granted,’ Fernandez replied, as we headed into the desert again.

‘How come your English is so good?’ I asked.

Fernandez glanced at me. ‘I went to an International School in the south of Spain for five years,’ he said. ‘I speak Spanish, English and French equally well.’

I waited in case he was going to say more, but he didn’t. The petrol station was now well behind us. I closed my eyes and thought about Mum and Dad again. Dad had always been hard on me – pushing me to toughen up. He’d probably think being in camp was good for me. But my stepmum would definitely be worrying. I wondered if she was okay. And what about my sisters? Did they even know I was still alive? Or had Mum and Dad told them I’d been killed in the explosion at Fox Academy?

If only I could make contact with them.

I tried to focus on their faces, imagining the whole family. Mum in the kitchen, busy with dinner. Dad getting in from work complaining about his latest contract – an incomplete delivery, a rude client, an unreliable labourer. And Amy and Kim sitting round the kitchen table eating biscuits and doing their homework.

I visualised each one in turn, imagining I was staring into their eyes. Nothing happened. I felt overwhelmed with despair. My failed attempts at remote telepathy were just making my homesickness worse. I opened my eyes and focused on the view outside the window, determined to stop thinking about my family for the moment.

In the distance, a skyline of buildings gradually emerged. A cluster of white houses. A town. Was this where we were going?

Fernandez drove into the empty streets, and past a row of shops. It was properly dusk now and lights were on inside several of the houses we passed. My heartbeat fastened. This was a chance to get away . . . all I had to do was give Fernandez the slip – find an adult who’d understand my Spanish. In my head, I rehearsed what I would say:
Ayudame, por favor. El hombre es malo. Quiero usar el telefono.

It wasn’t good Spanish, but it would get my point across.

Fernandez stopped outside a low, brick building surrounded by fairy lights. A sign hung from the door
: Casa Madelina.

‘We’re in San Juan,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘This is the main bar.’

‘Why are we here?’ I asked.

Fernandez grinned. ‘For tonight’s show,’ he said. ‘A testing ground for fresh talent.’

‘What fresh talent?’ I said.

The grin deepened. ‘Yours.’

‘What?’ I stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

Fernandez switched off the car engine and took out the key. His face was suddenly serious. ‘The Madelina is a local bar with an open mic policy. At a certain point every evening Jorge, the owner, lets a couple of punters get up on stage and do their thing. It’s mostly locals who fancy themselves as singer/songwriters, though sometimes you get so-called comedians and I once saw a juggler here. There’s never anyone good. People come for a laugh and a few beers.’ Fernandez paused. ‘You’re going to take their breath away with that mind-reading thing you do.’

‘What?’ My heart raced. ‘It isn’t mind-reading,’ I said quickly. ‘I told you, it’s just a trick.’

‘Whatever it is, it works,’ Fernandez said. ‘You
knew
what I was thinking last night. I could feel you inside my head.’

A million anxieties crowded my mind. He was expecting me to use my telepathy when my biggest priority was to keep my Gift secret. Not to mention having to stand up in front of an audience of adult Spaniards and ‘perform’.

‘But I can’t,’ I pleaded, thinking fast. ‘They’ll all be thinking in Spanish . . .’

‘Then think back in Spanish.’ Fernandez opened the locks on the car doors. ‘You’ve got enough basic language to do that – I’ve heard you. I’ll introduce you to the audience. All you have to do is tell them what they’re thinking. Just remember that if you don’t . . .’ he paused, ‘you and your friends will
drown
under demerits.’

He leaped out of the car and was round to my side in seconds. He held the door open as I stepped out. My head spun. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I stumbled inside, Fernandez at my side.

Casa Madelina was dark and smoky. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gloomy, candlelit interior. The bar wasn’t large – just a few round tables with a bar serving drinks down one side and a small stage area at the end. Most of the tables were occupied by dark-haired, middle-aged men, at least half of whom were smoking. I could only see one woman – also middle-aged – in a low-cut pink top. She glanced up at me – an uninterested stare – and threw a smile at Fernandez. He half-smiled back, his eyes sweeping the room. Who was he looking for? A couple of men at different tables looked up. Then a large man in an open-necked shirt who’d been standing by the bar strode towards us, his arms wide, a huge smile on his face.

‘Antonio!’ He embraced Fernandez and the two men spoke in rapid Spanish which I couldn’t follow. After a few moments I realised that they were talking about me.

Fernandez prodded the side of my head and chuckled. The other man looked sceptical, then laughed too.

‘Hello, Ed,’ he said, his accent thick and strong. ‘I am Jorge. We see what you do,
vale
?’

‘Vale,’ I said.
Okay.
What else could I say? ‘Ahora?’
Now?

‘No.’ Jorge brushed his thinning hair off his forehead. ‘After beer.’ He turned and yelled across to the bar. ‘Tres cervezas!’

We went over to one of the tables nearest the stage and sat down. A large mug of beer was placed in front of me. I took a few sips but felt too sick with worry to drink it properly. I don’t really like the taste of alcohol anyway, if I’m honest – and certainly not beer.

How was I going to get out of this? Why was Fernandez even making me do it? I frowned, lost in my own thoughts as the clink of glasses and low murmur of voices faded away.

I’m not sure how much time passed. Eventually a man with a guitar dragged his chair to the front of the room and sang a song. It was slow and wailing and he was flat. Not that the rest of the bar seemed to care, they just carried on talking as if he wasn’t even there. My spirits rose a little. Maybe no one would notice me after all.

Jorge ushered the singer off the stage, then came over to me. ‘Ed?’ he said.

Fernandez leaned over. ‘Keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Don’t cock it up.’

Legs shaking, I made my way to the stage. I sat in the chair the guitarist had vacated and looked up. Most people were still chatting away to each other, not paying me any attention. At least the lights were low. I glanced round, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. The woman in the pink top was watching me, nudging her neighbour, a thickset man with a streak of grey through his black hair.

He looked up, as Fernandez started speaking.

Fernandez’s Spanish was fast, but I caught the occasional word. He was basically bigging me up, saying that I was able to do something extraordinary –
estupendo
. . .
maravillosa –
that the people watching wouldn’t believe what I could do.

The room fell silent as he turned to me.

‘You’re up,’ he said in a low voice.

‘What d’you want me to do, exactly?’ I hissed, my face burning.

‘I told you.’ Fernandez glanced round the room. ‘Start with . . . I don’t know –
him
, the man with the grey streak in his hair sitting next to that woman. Find something he doesn’t want you to see, like you did with me.’

‘No.’ I stared at my hands, my heart thudding. I
couldn’t
do this. Apart from anything else, it meant giving away the secret of my telepathy – the very thing we were here to protect.

‘Do it
now
, Ed.’ Fernandez lowered his head. I could feel his breath against my ear. ‘If you don’t read that man’s mind in the next three seconds I will personally ensure that your three friends spend the rest of their time here in solitary confinement. Everything they
do
will earn them a demerit.’

I stared at him.
Surely
he couldn’t mean that. Fernandez glared back at me, his eyes blazing. Instinctively, I knew that he
did
mean it. At this moment, he was prepared to do anything to make me perform. He had too much face to lose if I didn’t. And it wasn’t just
me
, if I didn’t do what he said, Nico and Dylan and, worst of all, Ketty, would suffer.

There was no other option.

I looked into the audience. The man with the grey streak in his hair was watching me, his mouth slightly open. I met his gaze.
Whoosh.
Seconds later I was inside his head.

The first emotion I felt was shock, then anger. But not at me. This was residual anger. His default emotion. I steadied my mind, waiting to catch a coherent thought.

Que pasa? What’s happening
? the man was thinking.

No te preoccupes. Don’t worry
, I thought back.

Around us I could hear raised voices. The woman beside him was speaking in a shrill voice. ‘Manuel, Manuel,’ she persisted. ‘Mirame.’ Look at me.

‘Hurry up,’ Fernandez hissed in my ear.

Manuel?
I probed a little deeper. God, this man’s head was a mess. Emotions and memories all muddled up . . . indistinct thoughts careering round each other . . .

A horse being whipped. Anger driving through everything.

I felt sick. I didn’t like it. I swallowed, trying to find one coherent thought I could use.
There.
He kept thinking about someone called Susanna. A woman. He hated her, I was certain.

I broke the connection. Immediately, Manuel leaped to his feet, his fist clenched. He let out a stream of Spanish swear words, only a couple of which I recognised.

I stared down at the table. Fernandez gripped my shoulder. ‘What did you see?’

The atmosphere in the room grew tense. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Manuel push back his chair. He advanced towards us.

‘Ed,’ Fernandez hissed. ‘For God’s sake.’

I looked up, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘There’s some woman called Susanna. He hates her.’

‘La mujer Susanna,’ Fernandez announced to the room. He turned to Manuel and spoke again in a burst of rapid Spanish I just about got the gist of. ‘Why do you hate Susanna so much?’

Manuel stopped in his tracks. His furious face paled as he shifted his gaze from Fernandez to me. ‘Por dios,’ he said, sinking into the nearest chair.

For a split second there was silence, then Jorge tipped his head back and let out a roar of laughter.

‘Su ex mujer, Susanna,’ he shouted.

Fernandez clapped me on the back. ‘Manuel’s ex-wife,’ he said. ‘Well done, Ed, they know there’s no way you could have known that.’

The room was buzzing now. Fernandez hushed the audience and made me mind-read several more people. In each case I felt their shock as they sensed my presence inside their heads, then a succession of thoughts in Spanish. Reading minds whose language I didn’t understand was a completely different experience to anything I’d done before.

In a way it was easier to feel the basic emotions – the sense of the thoughts – without language cluttering the process up. On the other hand, that meant relying more on instinct than I was used to. I shook myself. What was I doing getting interested in the way my mind-reading worked?

At last Fernandez announced there would be a ten-minute break. He sat down beside me at the table and signalled to the waitress to bring him a beer.