“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 t
hree 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.
Michael’s turn. Step, step, slowly, step. Under the arch. Green light. Relief! He walked into the inner sanctum of the building.
Otis and Jennifer waited a distance from the lifts until one arrived and the crowd of suits in front of them crammed themselves into the metal box. The three of them watched as the lift doors closed again and took the suits away. Only then, when things were much quieter, did they step forward and press the button.
A second lift was there in seconds. Two metal jaws parted and allowed more grey-faced adults to tumble out onto the ground floor. Otis, Jennifer and Michael stepped into the emptied lift alone. Otis reached for the panel of buttons and hit the top number. A moment. The doors glided shut, enclosing them within the four metal walls. Then the lift jolted and started its ascent. Red electronic figures on the display above the doors counted up: 1 … 2 … 3 …, each number ratcheting up Michael’s nervousness.
Jennifer giggled. Nerves.
“Jen …” Otis gave her a stern look.
“When the red light went on,” said Jennifer, “I thought that was it.”
“Arches don’t always detect the chip properly,” said Otis. “It’s a glitch.”
Otis focussed on the display: 4 … 5 … 6 …
“Are you sure we need to go to the top floor?” said Jennifer.
“All CEOs are on the top floor,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
Jennifer didn’t get an answer to her question because the lift jolted again. The display rested on 12.
Michael felt a nervous cramp in his stomach.
Doors parted to reveal …
… a wall with a number twelve on it.
The three of them stepped out into an ordinary corridor.
Déjà vu struck Michael as sudden and painful as a bee sting. He staggered and fell sideways, putting his hand out on the wall to steady himself.
“Michael?” Jennifer’s voice quiet, but urgent.
“I know this place,” he said.
The brown carpet, the fluorescent lights, the partition walls and their glass doors that led into offices. Except, this time, the offices were not dark, but bright and occupied by office workers.
“What place?” said Jennifer.
“We shouldn’t have come here,” said Michael. “It’s the first place I remember. The place I ran away from.”
Otis took Michael roughly by the arm. “Sort yourself out,” he whispered in his ear, “you’ll get us noticed.”
Michael made a conscious effort to feel the solid floor at his feet and concentrate on every detail of that corridor that differed from the one he remembered. From the ringing of telephones and the indistinct chatter of workers, to the daylight spilling through the doors and the fact that this corridor seemed to be higher up than the one he remembered.
“You okay?” said Jennifer.
“I think so,” said Michael.
“You better be,” said Otis.
If nervous was what he’d felt inside the lift, then what he felt following Otis down the corridor was a hell of a lot worse. He was supposed to be there to help Otis and Jennifer find out about the cure clinics, not delve into his own past. It was what he wanted to know – of course! More than anything! – But he hadn’t been prepared to enter a carbon copy of the corridor; and the fear of walking along it grew with each step.
One of the office workers stepped out from behind a glass door and blocked their path. “Can I help you?” She wore a flowery blouse and a pair of black-rimmed glasses which made her eyes look wider as she glared suspiciously at them.
“Uh … yes actually,” said Jennifer, leaning out from behind Otis to give the woman a friendly smile. “We’ve got an appointment with Mr Ransom.”
“Really?” said the woman, doubtfully. She didn’t smile back.
“Yes.” Jennifer lifted the ID badge on her lapel and angled it towards her. “This is the right way, isn’t it?”
The woman narrowed her gaze and looked Jennifer up and down. “That’s right,” she said begrudgingly. “It’s the large office at the end. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” Jennifer moved past Otis and took the lead, striding up the corridor before the woman had a chance to question her again.
Michael risked a look back in her direction as they passed. She stood in the doorway, watching them for a moment, then went back inside her office.
At the end of the corridor was an ordinary office door. It was wedged open, allowing a little peek into a carpeted room. A dark blue Perspex sign embossed with white lettering read: Mr Brian Ransom.
Otis looked back at the others before taking a tentative step inside. Jennifer and Michael followed.
Inside was a kind of antechamber. A small, ordinary office with rudimentary furniture. A desk of light beech, cluttered with computer, printer, phone and a stack of papers. Probably an office for Ransom’s personal assistant. There was a chair, but no one sitting in it. No one home.
But, like walking into an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb, it was what lay beyond the antechamber that was amazing.
Behind the desk was a wall, four metres long, made entirely of glass. Even the door, apart from its brass handle and hinges, was made of glass. And, beyond that, a large executive office. Big bold furniture exuded status: from the large solid oak desk to the stout black leather chair that sat behind it. A sprawling sofa and armchair, also in black leather, set around a squat oak coffee table to allow for laid back meetings. At the far end, the London skyline could be seen through a giant window that ran the length of the office, including the distinctive dark glass cigar-shaped building everyone called The Gherkin. It was a breath-taking view.
The executive office, too, was empty.
“Ransom’s not here,” said Otis.
“Obviously!” said Jennifer.
There was a hint of concern on Otis’s face, but he dismissed it with a nod. “Probably at lunch. He’ll be back soon. We’ll wait.”
Otis reached for the handle of the glass door.
“You’re not going in?” Michael said, his stomach starting to twist again.
“Best place to wait,” said Otis. He turned the handle and led them inside.
The first thing Michael noticed was the feeling of space. Not just because the office was large, but because the glass window made it seem part of London. Michael approached and stared out at the rooftop view. Ancient and modern buildings were squeezed, higgledy-piggledy,
in between each other; their brick, concrete and stone shapes standing tall and short against the off-white cloud of the autumn sky.
Otis paced the office, impatient and nervous.
Jennifer sat in the armchair. She laid back into the cushions without inhibitions. “Otis, will you sit down? You’ll wear out the carpet.”
Otis sighed and did what she asked, perching his buttocks on the edge of the sofa, as if he knew he didn’t really belong there.
“Whose brilliant idea was it to come at lunchtime?” said Jennifer. It was a rhetorical question, as all three of them knew it was Otis who came up with the plan.
“Easier to blend in,” said Otis. “More people coming and going.”
“Including, apparently, Brian Ransom,” said Jennifer.
Michael turned away from the skyline and rested his back on the windowsill. “Why was I here?” he said. “Why is my first memory before I ran, being in these offices?”
“Are you sure?” said Jennifer. “Offices can look pretty much the same.”
“Not that corridor,” said Michael. “This means … I don’t know what it means.”
“It means we can add a few more questions to the list we want to ask him,” said Jennifer. She sighed, got up from the armchair and walked over to Ransom’s desk.
“Jennifer, leave that alone,” said Otis.
“I’m just taking a look.” She sat on the executive chair. Its sophisticated suspension bounced under her body weight.
“Jen, they’ll chuck us out for snooping.”
“Three teenagers with forged security passes in the boss’s office?” she snorted. “Likelihood is, they’re gonna chuck us out anyway. I think we should have a snoop around first.”
The desk was neat with computer, keyboard and old-fashioned bound A4 diary laid out precisely as if ready for inspection. Only a coffee mug with a few millimetres of cold, brown liquid left in the bottom and a framed family photograph beside the computer monitor suggested the desk belonged to a real person.
Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1) Page 9