Michael nodded. His eye caught the bright colours of the webpage on the computer screen. “You said there was something you wanted to show me?”
“Yes!” Jennifer got off the bed, her mood suddenly brighter, and went to the computer. “We’ve been arranging protests at cure clinics.”
“I saw the news report – that was you?”
She nodded with pride. With a click, the screen displayed a page listing all of the cure clinic protests. There were more than Michael expected. About ten over the past couple of weeks. In Manchester, London, Liverpool, Guildford, Belfast and others, where clinics had to be closed for a day or where people were arrested.
“I thought the government kept shutting down your websites,” said Michael.
“We’ve got a computer whizz who’s a perceiver. He keeps the site one step ahead of the authorities.”
“Jennifer …?” he asked.
“Yes?” Her eyes still bright with enthusiasm that poured, unrestrained, out of her. If she saw his doubtful expression, she didn’t register it. After a lifetime of perception, she probably didn’t know how to read the signs.
“On the news,” said Michael, “the report I saw … it was – well, it wasn’t very favourable. Teenagers throwing bottles and attacking doctors.”
“We’re making a stand, Michael. At last. We’re showing them we’re not going to lie down and take it.”
“The news report made perceivers look like terrorists. Like the quicker they round us all up and cure us, the better.”
“They’re taking away what we are, Michael! Can’t you see?” Tears formed in her eyes again. Tears of anger and frustration. “We have to stop them. Whatever way we can.”
In the tense silence that followed, Jennifer’s mother called from downstairs. “Jennifer? Are you all right up there?”
“Yeah!” she shouted back.
“I’ve made some tea, why don’t you come down?”
“In a minute,” shouted Jennifer.
“Okay, but don’t let it get cold.”
Michael felt the edge of her anger subside. The red of her cheeks faded and her breath returned to its normal steady rhythm.
“If you’re going to win this war, you need to convince people,” he said. “Not just other perceivers, but adults. I know you want to fight back, but violence will turn people against you.”
Jennifer threw her arms up in the air in despair and flopped down on the bed. Her volatile emotions turned to regret. “It wasn’t my idea to hurt the doctors. I wanted our protest to be loud, to make a fuss, not to be violent. But a lot of the kids are angry.”
Michael sat beside her. He took her hand and cradled it in his own. Her skin was soft, it felt nice to touch her. “I understand,” he said.
“I haven’t told you about Monday!” She was suddenly excited again.
“Monday?”
“Yes! We’re gonna hold a massive protest in London. Every perceiver we can get in touch with is going to be there. We’re going to march on Parliament.”
“Won’t most teenagers be at school?” said Michael.
“Not on Monday. They’re going to skip school and come into London. A whole mass of people telling the government we haven’t got some horrible disease, that we don’t want to be cured of who we are.”
Her eyes bright. Expectant, waiting for Michael’s approval.
A shout from downstairs: “Jennifer! Tea’s getting cold.”
She ignored it. “Well?”
“Sounds like they’re going to have to listen to you.”
She smiled. “I think so. But it’s a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Only ’ceivers.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honour.” He lifted two fingers to his temple in salute.
“Were you a scout?” she said.
“I can’t remember,” said Michael.
She laughed. A delicate, beautiful laugh. She turned to the bedroom door and shouted, “Coming, Mum!” She took Michael’s hand and led him back down the stairs.
~
Sian’s car bumbled down the M1 back towards London. Her mind was alive with excitement. She was more buzzed about her newspaper article than she had been when she first offered to drive Michael to Hemel Hempstead to find Jennifer. He couldn’t figure out why.
A thought … could be big … drifted over from Sian’s mind.
He hadn’t been eavesdropping, but it intrigued him, so he concentrated: Need to call Mark… he perceived. … Hands free kit’s in my bag … Wish I didn’t have this damn kid in the car …
Michael stared across at her. Outwardly, she appeared not to care he was sitting next to her in the passenger seat. Her eyes were on the road with one hand drumming on the steering wheel and the other clutching the gear leaver. Inwardly, something was festering. A frustration at the traffic and a resentment at Michael being there.
Mark’s going to go for it … He’s got to … Thank God Ted’s on holiday … If I get home before six – God, don’t say I’m going to hit the rush hour – then I can … Mark will go for it, I know he will …
He pulled his phone from his pocket and awoke the screen with a touch of his finger. The contacts page was still active where Jennifer had typed in her number. Michael texted: ‘S v. excited bout story. What did U tell her?’
They turned off the M1 onto the North Circular and hit stop-start London traffic.
“Who’s Mark?” Michael asked.
“What?” Sian woke from her driver’s daze.
“Who’s Mark? You mentioned him back at the house,” he lied.
“I did?” Annoyance at his question. “I don’t remember.”
“Yeah, you said you needed to call him about something.”
“Oh, did I?” It was a reasonable explanation of how he’d heard the name. Although untrue, she accepted it and became less defensive. “Mark’s my editor. Acting editor, really. He’s stepping up while Ted’s on holiday.”
“Is that bad?” said Michael.
“Good,” said Sian. “Ted didn’t like me bringing perceiver stories to him. I think he was under government pressure to toe the official line, not as if I ever had any proof. But Mark … well, he’s got two weeks while Ted’s in the Maldives – or wherever he is – to make his mark, so to speak.”
“And that’s why you have to call him?”
“Got to tell the editor what story you’re working on.”
“Feature,” corrected Michael.
“What?”
“Feature. You said ‘story’.”
“Story/feature – same thing,” said Sian.
But it wasn’t, if he perceived her correctly. Michael reached for his phone: ‘Don’t think S is writing “feature”. Text me.’ He hit send.
Damn this traffic … she kept thinking … gotta get the kid out of the car … gotta ring Mark … he’ll need to bump the lead and it’s getting late …
As they turned off the North Circular onto the Hendon Way, Sian turned apologetically to Michael. “I’m running really late. I’m not going to be able to take you all the way into town. I’ll drop you at Cricklewood train station. It’s hardly centre of the universe, but there’s a quick service into St Pancras and you can get where you need to go from there.”
“Okay,” said Michael.
Up ahead a road sign indicated it was only a mile to Cricklewood. He hadn’t got much more time to find out the story in her head.
“What are you running late for?” he asked.
“Deadlines,” said Sian. “Always deadlines.”
“You’re going to write up the stuff about Jennifer tonight?”
“While it’s fresh,” she said.
“I thought, with a feature, there wouldn’t be so much urgency.”
Bloody children and their bloody questions. “No urgency.”
Michael looked at his phone. He brushed a finger across the screen to wake it up. Still nothing from Jennifer. ‘Where R U?’
<
br /> A few minutes more and Sian turned right. Ahead of them loomed Cricklewood train station.
“Nearly here,” said Sian, with relief.
“Thanks for the lift,” said Michael.
“No problem,” she said, even though her feelings said different.
“So you think Mark will be happy to run the story then?” he prompted.
“I would think so.” I got an exclusive, he better bloody run it.
“What angle are you going with?”
“Angle? It’s a feature, there is no angle.” Demonstration to bring London to a standstill … schoolchildren planning to abandon their classrooms …
And Michael had his answer. She knew about the planned demonstration, the one Jennifer said was secret.
They pulled up at the taxi rank at the front of the station. “There isn’t going to be a feature, is there?” said Michael.
A pleasant, puzzled smile masked her lying face. “You think I’d drive all the way to Hemel Hempstead and back for nothing?” she said.
“Don’t run the story,” said Michael.
Anger boiling within her. How does he know? Does he just suspect? “You need to get out now, Michael, I’m not supposed to park here.”
Michael gave her a hard stare. There was nothing inside her that seemed ashamed at what she had done. He punched at the clasp holding the seatbelt. It leapt out of the holster. “Jennifer wouldn’t want you to run it.” He got out of the car.
The forecourt of the station smelt of the exhaust of half a dozen running taxi engines. Dirty and polluting, like the journalist.
He was about to close the passenger door when Sian leant across the seat. “It’ll be fine, Michael. The publicity will be good for Jennifer, you’ll see.”
He perceived she meant what she said. She had no remorse.
Michael slammed the door and watched her drive off.
He dialled Jennifer’s number on his phone.
It rang for a long time before someone answered. “Hello?”
He put a finger in his other ear and turned away from the noisy road. “Jennifer?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Michael. Where have you been? I’ve been texting you.”
“Sorry. I was at dinner. Mum’s banned phones from the table.”
“Did you tell Sian about the demonstration?”
“What?”
Louder: “Did you tell Sian about the demonstration?”
“The journalist? No! Are you a skank?”
“She knows.”
“It’s supposed to be a secret,” said Jennifer.
“I didn’t tell her!” said Michael.
“Then, how—”
“I was thinking, maybe your mum …?”
Silence on the other end of the phone. A strange nothingness in his head – he couldn’t perceive Jennifer at such a distance, even though her voice had been right there in his ear.
Jennifer swore. “I told her not to say anything.”
“You mean you told her? Why on earth …?”
“She kept going on about how I needed to do something with my life,” said Jennifer. “I thought it would shut her up.”
“It seems to have done the opposite.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I rang to tell you because I think Sian’s going to publish it.”
“She can’t.”
“I don’t think she cares,” he said.
An audible sigh down the phone line. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know. I just thought I should tell you.”
“I’ll ring Sian,” she said.
“I don’t think it’ll help.”
“Then I’ll get onto the network.” A pause. “Are you sure about this, Michael?”
“I’m sure.”
“Skankin’ hell,” she said. “What a skankin’ disaster.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PERCEIVERS PROTEST TO PARALYSE LONDON
By Sian Jones, staff reporter
Teenagers are planning to flock to London on Monday in a secret plan to bring the capital to a standstill, The Daily News has learnt. Thousands of perceivers who oppose the government’s plan to return normality to our streets have been organising behind the scenes to stage an illegal march on Parliament.
“We’ve been told to go down to the clinic to get the cure for our perception like it’s a flu shot,” said organiser Jennifer Price. “But what we have isn’t a disease, it’s part of us and we should have a say in whether it’s taken away.”
Underground websites are urging teenagers to leave their classrooms to join the demonstration. “Don’t tell your parents or your teachers, don’t tell your brothers and sisters,” proclaimed one site. “Just get up in the morning and join us. Sneak out of the house in your school uniform if you have to, but make sure your voice is heard.”
That site has since been shut down by officials, but the viral nature of the internet means the information continues to spread. Regional groups of perceivers are believed to be organising transport to get into London on the Monday. There are fears classrooms could be emptied and teenagers will spill out onto the roads and stop traffic. There’s even concern young tempers could flare and violence could break out in what is planned to be an illegal protest.
The Metropolitan Police confirms no group has applied for a march or demonstration permit in the controlled zone around Parliament. But a source within the security services admitted they have been following what they call ‘internet chatter’. “We’re not concerned,” the source told The Daily News. “We believe this is an isolated group of teenagers with delusions of grandeur. We foresee no public disorder occurring in the capital or elsewhere on Monday. We are, however, keeping an eye on the situation and liaising with our colleagues at the Met to ensure public safety is not put at risk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jennifer sat in a dark corner of the coffee shop, her trademark large coat wrapped around her and a paper copy of The Daily News in her hand. Her attention was consumed by it. She didn’t notice Michael walk up to her.
“Got your message,” said Michael.
She looked up from her curled up position on the low coffee-house sofa. Her eyes were red and the dim lights picked up the remains of tears underneath. “You were right,” she said. She threw the paper down on the coffee table with disgust. The headline looked darker and uglier on paper than it had done on the tiny screen of his phone. Underneath, her picture in younger happier times in her school uniform, was the only one smiling.
“You want coffee?” he asked.
“That’d be great.”
He noticed, then, she already had a full cup on the table. He went to the counter anyway. After all Jennifer had done for him back in the past, the least he could do was buy her a coffee.
The place was full, despite it being one of three coffee shops in the street, and Michael had to queue. Businessmen and women in suits holding relaxed meetings with each other, casually dressed customers on phones and laptops, a jogger with a fruit smoothie; and noise everywhere. Conversations that merged into one and bounced off the walls, mixed with the grinding of coffee beans and the frothing of milk. Jennifer had chosen a good place to meet. It was somewhere where they could be anonymous. Just another couple of coffee drinkers.
Jennifer’s coffee smelt bitter as he carried it back to the table. Amazing how its pungency overcame the background smell of everyone else’s coffee in the building. He’d paid far too much for a bottle of orange juice for himself and a bagel which made his stomach rumble when he looked at it.
He put Jennifer’s coffee on the table next to the one she had hardly touched and sat next to her. She was staring at the paper again.
“How many times have you read that?” he said.
She tapped the paper with her index finger. “Teenagers with a sense of grandeur!” she quoted.
“I know,” said Michael.
“How could she do this?”
“I don’
t know. She’s a journalist, I suppose, it’s what she does.”
“My skankin’ mother! She was ‘so proud’ of me that she just ‘had to tell’ the ‘lovely lady’ all about the ‘little thing’ I was planning in London. You’d think she was old enough to understand the meaning of ‘secret’.”
Jennifer was wobbling in the way people do when they are fighting emotion. In her case, a mixture of betrayal, anger and despair. Michael reached across and held her hand. He didn’t know what else to do.
She sniffed and got control of herself. “I shouldn’t’ve told her in the first place. It was stupid.”
Jennifer looked up. She whisked her hand away from Michael’s. He followed her gaze to see a familiar figure with shocking blond hair approach their table.
Michael stood up. “Otis!”
“Michael mate!” Otis put out his hand for Michael to shake, then changed his mind and put his arms round him in a bear hug. “You’re okay. You’re really okay. I thought, after the hotel room, y’know …”
He let go of his embrace and Michael got a chance to have a good look at him. He looked just the same. But it was the first time he was able to perceive him. There was a confidence about him. A friendliness that hid a sense of wariness beneath.
“Hey, Jen, how ya doin’?” he said as he sat down next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders and she sank into his body. Michael perceived how he – more than any other – was able to comfort her. Michael tried not to be jealous. Otis was a perceiver and would know.
Jennifer sniffed again. “I’m okay.”
“I tried to call you to say I was running late,” said Otis, “but I couldn’t get through.”
“I turned off my phone,” said Jennifer. “Journalists kept calling me.”
“Ah,” said Otis. He picked up the paper and frowned at the headline. He chucked it dismissively back on the table. “I’m going to get some coffee,” he said. “Anyone else?”
“Have this one,” said Michael. Jennifer was never going to drink both coffees, he realised, and passed the one he’d just bought across to Otis.
“Cheers.”
“I heard you’d been arrested,” said Michael.
Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1) Page 20