Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1)
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All went quiet apart from the steady beat of the music leaking through from the hall. The smile slipped from Jennifer’s lips. Michael waited. Nothing happened. “What do I do?”
“Do nothing.”
Her face became serious and still. She leant into him. So close that he could feel her soft breathing on his cheek. Almost as intimate as a kiss. Anticipation rose inside of him. His heart quickened. He caught a hint of the perfumed soap she used to wash with. Saw the neat black line of eye pencil under each lower lid and the way mascara elongated her black eyelashes. Desire tingled through his body. As soon as he felt it, he knew she would feel it too; perceive it in him. He had to force it away. He focussed on the dark area of his mind where he had no memories. He tried to think of the time before waking up in the corridor, before running, before meeting Jennifer.
Her stare was intense. She looked into his eyes. Deep. Penetrating. Probing. Through the cornea, past the iris and beyond the pupil. Until she was inside his mind. He couldn’t feel her, but he knew she had to be in there. The subtlety in her stare showed she was thinking about everything she perceived. Like a tiny flashing light on a computer, each byte of information sending a flicker across her eyes. Her breath shallow in concentration. Body absorbed in stillness. Her singular perception, sharp and focussed, stretching out the seconds into minutes.
Until her eyes softened and she withdrew. Back through the pupil, the iris, the cornea. Her breathing deepened. She blinked her mascaraed eyelashes and their connection was severed. She leant back against the door and her body relaxed.
A mixture of nerves and excitement trembled inside him. “Well?” he said.
“Strange,” said Jennifer. She seemed distracted, not quite there. Like a person emerging from a dream. “There’s so little of you, it’s like perceiving a baby.”
“But did you see my memories? Do you know who I am? Where I live?”
“No.”
Michael deflated. His legs hardly had the strength to keep him upright any more. He staggered backwards and felt his bum hit the rim of a sink. He perched on it. “God!” he cursed. He turned and kicked at the wall. Plaster came away from the brickwork and scattered to the floor in pieces. He kicked the bits to the other side of the room. “God! God! God!”
His face was hot with frustration. He turned on the cold tap with such force that it sent water spraying onto his trousers. He cupped his hands and splashed it onto his face until his skin, his hair and jumper were dripping wet.
“I’m sorry,” said Jennifer. “There’s a nothingness inside of you. Like someone sucked out your memories.”
“Am I brain damaged?” said Michael. The thought – suddenly in his head – scared him.
“I don’t know. I’ve never perceived anything like you.”
Jennifer flinched at a sound on the other side of the door. Michael heard it too. The smashing of glass.
Then another.
Screams erupted from behind the door. The frightened, high-pitched screams of teenage girls.
Jennifer’s eyes widened. She turned and dashed out the door.
Michael followed her into the screaming.
The door opened onto an orange glow. People were running. Shouting. Flames leapt from half a dozen places. A glass bottle sailed through an already-smashed window. The flaming rag in its neck arched across the hall and struck the back wall. Glass shattered. Liquid spurted in all directions and ignited with a whompf of flame.
Petrol bombs had exploded throughout the hall and they were still coming.
CHAPTER FOUR
FIRE CONSUMED the hall. It feasted on its wooden floors. Devoured curtains at the window. Licked at paper pinned to the noticeboard. The children’s paintings blackened, their corners withered in the heat and started to burn.
The half-dozen seats of fire where petrol bombs had exploded were merging into one, carried by the accelerant which had burst from smashed glass bottles.
Michael ran. He dodged the flames which pawed at his trouser legs. Their heat was fierce and each breath sucked hot air into his lungs. But the fire hadn’t entirely taken hold of the building yet. His escape route was clear. He ran through the main door and out into the open.
He breathed deep and savoured the clean air. Around him, other teenagers were standing with shocked faces, staring back at the burning hall. A girl was crying and being comforted by a friend. Michael turned and saw what they saw. The fire flickered orange through four smashed windows and an open door. A boy ran out, screaming in terror, flames flapping around the sleeve of his sweatshirt. An adult ran past Michael and engulfed the boy with a jacket. Pushed him to the ground and smothered the flames.
“Are you all right?” said the adult.
The boy nodded, his face streaked with sooty tears.
The adult – a man with thinning hair – stood. “Everyone back from the building.” He waved his arms like he was shooing a herd of cattle. “Back!”
The teenagers moved a few steps away from the burning hall, Michael among them.
The man pulled a phone from his pocket and dialled. He put it to his ear and asked for the fire service.
“Oi!”
Michael looked up and saw Otis and Jack picking their way through the crowd towards him.
“Where’s Jennifer?” said Otis.
“She came out before me,” said Michael.
“She’s not here,” said Otis.
“Are you sure?” Michael looked around at the ragtag collection of teenagers. He couldn’t see her.
“I told you,” said Jack. “She must’ve gone back for her stuff.”
“We’re gonna have to go in and get her,” said Otis. He took a gulp from the bottle of water in his hand.
“Are you mad?” Michael looked at the building, its fiery glow now lighting up the night. “You need to wait for the firemen.”
“She could be dead by then,” said Otis.
Jack shot Michael an accusatory glance. “He should go, he’s the one who left her in there.”
“Hey!” said Michael. “I thought I followed her out, remember?”
“ForChrissake!” Otis glared at both of them. “Are we gonna argue or are we gonna get Jennifer?”
“I’ll go,” said Michael. Somehow, he knew what to do. Like he had known talking about the weather was a British trait, the knowledge was inside of him. He thrust his hand towards Jack. “Give me your T-shirt.”
“What?”
“My jumper’s the wrong material. Give me your damn T-shirt.” Michael presented his open hand again.
“Do it,” said Otis.
Grumbling, Jack took off his T-shirt – pulling it awkwardly over his plaster cast – and handed it to Michael.
“I’ll need that.” Michael grabbed the bottle of water from Otis’s hand and poured it over the shirt. The water expanded the fibres in the material, making a crude smoke filter. Michael took a last, deep breath of clean air, put the material over his mouth and nose and headed back inside the hall.
What wasn’t fire was smoke. It hung in black clouds from the ceiling so thick that it was impossible to see more than a metre in front of him. The heat was searing. His sweat did nothing to cool him. Michael knew he was potentially walking into his own grave, but he walked anyway.
He made a conscious effort to remember each step as he hopped from one tiny piece of non-burning floor to another. He trod a winding path towards the door to the back room, his breathing laboured through the wet T-shirt as his lungs sought to find the oxygen in the air.
The door to the back room was closed. Michael reached for the handle.
He let go. “Argh!” It was burning hot. The fire had heated the metal like the ring on a hob. He pulled the T-shirt from his face, wrapped the dry end around his hand and used it like an oven glove to open the door.
Jennifer was inside. Stamping on a burning shoulder bag on the floor, trying to beat out the flames.
The fire wasn’t as severe in the isolated room. The clo
sed door had protected it from the main blaze. There was a fire in the corner under the tiny window – now smashed – but the area where Jennifer stood was free of flame and the air was almost clear.
Michael grabbed Jennifer’s hand. She kept stamping on the bag, hopelessly extinguishing one part as another started to burn.
“Leave it!” shouted Michael over the crackling of the blazing building. The open door was sucking the heat and smoke into the back room. Jennifer’s little haven from the flames was about to be engulfed.
Michael’s next breath was tainted with smoke. He coughed it back out again. His lungs urged him to take in more air, but he fought the instinct until the T-shirt was back over his mouth. The material had almost dried out from the heat and the filter was becoming ineffective. If they didn’t leave now, he felt sure they would die in there.
Jennifer stopped stamping. Whether it was because she perceived the desperation in him or saw the urgency in his eyes, Michael was not sure. But whatever the reason, she abandoned the bag to the flames. She stood and watched for a second as they multiplied across its surface.
“We need to go,” said Michael.
She nodded. Together, they turned towards the door.
Hell stood between them and the way out. A mixture of fire and darkness. The smoke was so strong now, it stung Michael’s eyes. Water welled inside them and blurred what little he could see of their escape route.
Jennifer coughed beside him. He pulled her close and put the other end of the T-shirt over her nose and mouth. She held it there.
Hand in hand, they stepped out into the hall. Michael retraced the winding path to the door, picking his way through from memory because he couldn’t see. Stumbling through lack of oxygen, the surface of his skin burning with the heat, he looked desperately for the door.
It appeared. Like a magic door in a children’s story book. One moment, they were staggering blind, clinging onto each other to keep each other safe from the flames, and the next they were looking at their way out.
Michael lurched for it. Tripping on the doorstep, he collapsed on all fours and felt the stony tarmac of the path under his hands and knees. He took a large lungful of fresh night air and coughed it out again. He retched from the bottom of his stomach and felt it rasp his throat. He spat something vile onto the pavement. It was green and black. But he was out. The heat and the crackle of the fire was behind him.
Beside him, Jennifer coughed too. Hands reached down to pick her up. Otis and Jack took her away.
Michael crawled to a patch of grass where he sat back to look at the hall. The blaze had started to take over the roof. Soon, the whole building would be ashes.
Someone asked if he was all right. Michael nodded. Someone else passed him a bottle of water. He took it with a ‘thank you’ and sipped. It washed some of the fire out of his throat, but he could still taste the soot.
Then Otis was back. Standing above him like a pale, blond giant. He offered his hand. Michael took it and Otis pulled him to his feet. “Look, thanks, man,” said Otis. Michael glanced behind where Jennifer was sitting with Jack on the wall of the front garden of a nearby house.
“You’re welcome,” said Michael. What he did was stupid and he could have been killed, but even he had to admit he probably saved Jennifer’s life.
“Jen says you, er … got nowhere to stay,” said Otis.
“That’s right,” said Michael. He hadn’t said anything to her. She must have perceived it when she looked into his mind.
“I was thinking …” Otis shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and looked away as if he was embarrassed to say it. “If you want … you could stay with us.”
“Really?” The offer took a moment to sink in. Michael didn’t know whether to feel excited, relieved, or just grateful.
Sirens howled. They both looked up. Two fire engines came racing round the corner, red and blue lights mingling with the orange of the blaze. Michael realised Otis had been right. If they’d waited for the firemen to arrive, Jennifer would probably be dead.
“I’d rather not be here when the police arrive,” said Michael.
Otis sighed. He looked out into the distance from where more sirens were screaming. “Me neither,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Otis and Jennifer lived in a squat in Hackney, north east London, about a ten minute walk from the burning remains of the drop-in centre. Jack came with them, even though he actually lived with his family a few streets away.
It was a one-bedroom flat in a council block, one of many in the area behind the High Street. Access to the building was supposed to be via a swipe card and secure code at the front, but the wire mesh gate that locked off the fire escape was broken and, with a little perseverance, Jennifer was able to use her fingernails to prise it open. Michael followed Otis and the others up a flight of concrete stairs to the front door which Otis unlocked with a key.
It opened directly into a messy living room that smelt of stale air. Everything about it was old and tired. The wallpaper, which looked like it had been designed in the last century, peeled at the edges. A sofa and two armchairs sagged with the weight of years of use, while the true state of the table against the back wall was disguised with a cloth slung over the top. The floor was covered in junk. An empty pizza box, several mugs with the remains of coffee in the bottom, a pile of paper in the corner, a dirty green suitcase and a couple of abandoned cigarette ends.
“Got a T-shirt I can borrow?” said Jack as soon as he walked in. “I’m bloody freezin’.” He was naked from the waist up apart from the plaster cast and had been shivering throughout the walk.
“Bedroom,” said Otis.
Jack trooped off through a door at the back.
“Make sure it’s an old one!” Otis called after him.
Otis sat on the sofa with Jennifer. Michael chose the least-worn of the two armchairs. They said nothing for a while, silent in their own contemplation. Michael kept thinking about the fire.
“Do you know what happened?” he said eventually.
“Some kid saw a group of adults run off,” said Otis.
“Not exactly a surprise,” said Jennifer.
“The kid said they had scarves over their faces and their hoods up. Smashed the windows first, lit some petrol bombs then chucked them in,” said Otis.
“Did they know about us?” said Jennifer.
“That there was a bunch of perceivers meeting in the back?” Otis shook his head. “Doubt it. It’s a teenage drop-in centre. They were probably targeting teenagers, thinking they’d scare the snot out of a few ’ceivers while they were at it. We’re supposed to be five per cent, right?”
“You’re all perceivers then?” said Michael. “You, Jennifer and Jack?” He’d suspected it, but he wasn’t sure.
“Does that bother you?” said Otis.
“No,” he said. But he had to admit he felt self-conscious being around them. He understood they were reading his thoughts and feelings, he just wasn’t sure how much.
Jennifer leant her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. “God,” she said, like the weight of everything that had happened was suddenly coming down on her. “Do they hate us that much?”
“It’s more fear than hate,” said Otis.
Jennifer opened her eyes again and looked straight at him. “Being frightened makes them want to burn children? Jack said a boy got petrol on his arm. It spilled out of a bottle as it flew past.”
“I heard,” said Otis. “Caught fire as he ran out.”
“They could have killed that boy,” said Jennifer, her voice trembling. “They could have killed all of us.” Michael saw the tears forming in her eyes, but she held them back.
“They could have killed you,” Otis said. “Why did you go back, Jen?”
“My bag,” said Jennifer. “It had everything in it. My phone. Everything. I had to get it. It was stupid, I know. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’ll get you a new phone,” said Otis.
“You’re not stupid,” said Otis, gently wiping a strand of her hair from her cheek. “I’ve got some of the details, we should be able to get it all back eventually.”
Jennifer clearly wasn’t in a mood to be soothed, and batted his hand away from her face. “Eventually? If we’re gonna fight this thing, Otis, we need that information now.”
The bedroom door banged open and Jack emerged wearing a black and white striped T-shirt two sizes too big for him. “What d’ya reckon?” he said, twirling in a clumsy imitation of a catwalk model.
“Is that all you can think about?” said Jennifer, accusingly.
“I perceive you’re upset, Jen. I thought I’d lighten the mood.”
“Maybe some of us don’t want it to be lightened.” She got up from the sofa and rushed off to the back of the flat.
“Where are you going?” Otis called after her.
“Shower,” said Jennifer. “I smell like skanking Guy Fawkes.”
~
MICHAEL WENT IN the shower after Jennifer had finished. She had used most of the hot water, but the cleansing sensation was still glorious. It washed the whole week from his skin. The soot of the fire turned the water black as it swirled down the plug hole. Then he lathered his whole body with soap and let the white bubbles strip away the grime of sleeping rough. When, at last, he stepped out of the shower, he no longer smelt like a mouldy sock. He wrapped himself in a towel and started to believe he was a civilised person again.
Otis made up a bed of sorts for him on the sofa. There weren’t any spare bedclothes in the flat, so he offered Michael a couple of coats to throw over the top of him. After sleeping on a cold, hard park bench, someone else’s lounge, a sofa and some old coats were luxury.
Jack cobbled together the cushions from the two armchairs and made a place for himself on the floor. He was used to it, apparently. He didn’t say explicitly, but Michael suspected Jack preferred the company of other perceivers to his own family and slept on Otis and Jennifer’s floor quite often.