Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1)

by Killick, Jane

  “Got community service,” said Otis. “It was my first offence, so they went easy on me.”

  “Did they make you …?” Michael began.

  Otis finished his sentence with a whisper. “… have the cure?” He gave a mischievous grin. “They gave me an appointment as part of my release conditions. Of course, I didn’t actually turn up, so I suppose I’m a fugitive.”

  Michael smiled. “Join the club.”

  Jennifer banged her fist loud on the table. For an instant, the whole coffee shop went quiet. Heads turned in her direction. She turned her face into the shadows. The other customers realised nothing interesting was going on and went back to their conversations. But it got Michael and Otis’s attention.

  “This is serious,” she said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Maybe it’s not that bad,” suggested Otis.

  “It’s on the front cover of the skankin’ newspaper,” she said. “It’s all over the net, every media outlet from here to Timbuktu’s been calling me …”

  “You want this demo to be big, right?” said Otis. He wasn’t just trying to cheer Jennifer up. Michael perceived he was excited about something.

  “Well … yeah,” said Jennifer.

  “Then this is great publicity,” he said.

  “But it’s illegal, Otis. And I’m quoted as the organiser. I’ll probably be arrested or worse.”

  “Don’t be so pessimistic, Jen. You’re cured already, you can afford to be the public face of perceivers.”

  “Public face?” she said.

  “Hear me out,” said Otis. “You said this story is everywhere, that journalists are calling you. Fantastic! Speak to them. Put our opinion out there. If you want this demonstration to show what teenagers feel, then this is your opportunity to do that.”

  Michael was sandwiched between Otis’s excitement and Jennifer’s reticence.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  But Michael thought Otis had a point. And he remembered Sian’s words at the train station, ‘the publicity will be good for Jennifer’. “I think you should do it,” said Michael.

  “Really?” said Jennifer.

  “Tell them what it’s like to be a perceiver,” he continued, “what it’s like to be cured against your will. If you don’t tell the truth, who else is going to?”

  Jennifer thought about it and Michael perceived she was warming to the idea. He turned to Otis. Otis perceived it too.

  “Turn your phone back on,” said Otis. “Start returning those journalists’ calls.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NATASHA HILL LOOKED up from her computer screen and turned to the camera: “Some news just in: we’re getting reports that a counter demonstration is planned against the teenage perceivers in London. With more, I’m joined by our Home Affairs Correspondent, Frank Maplefield …”

  The image changed to a wide shot which showed Frank, in hastily tied blue tie clashing with his cream suit, sitting across the desk from the newsreader.

  “Frank, what more do we know?”

  “News is just coming in, as you say, Natasha, but it seems a demonstration is being organised in London at the same time as the teenage perceivers plan to march on Parliament. The announcement’s been made by Action Against Mind Invasion, who – as we know – are very much in favour of the normalisation of the teenage population.”

  “Do we know what form this demonstration will take?” said Natasha.

  “Not as yet, but it seems the AAMI want to show how much support there is for their side of the argument—”

  “Can I just stop you there, Frank?” Natasha pressed her earpiece closer into her ear. “I think we can go to a statement from the AAMI now …”

  The shot changed to somewhere outside and a close-up of a suburban front door. It was painted yellow with a number 27 in black lettering above the letterbox. The door opened.

  Mrs Angelheart, in floral dress and thick make-up, emerged on the doorstep. “Thank you for coming,” she announced. She stepped onto her garden path. The microphones, photographers and old timers with trusty pen and paper rushed towards her, getting into the edge of shot. “I would like to confirm that Action Against Mind Invasion will be demonstrating its opposition to the rogue element of teenage perceivers who plan to gather in London on Monday—”

  A caption rolled out across the bottom of the screen: Claudia Angelheart, President AAMI.

  “—It is imperative that we show that the nation as a whole believes the cure is the right way to ensure harmony between the generations of this country. As such, I would encourage every parent, every teacher, every person who cares about the future to join with us as we petition Parliament. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. There will be more details on our website, AAMI dot …”

  ~

  FROM HER POSITION high on top of the Queen Victoria Memorial, the gilded statue of Victory looked down upon the teenagers. There were many, many of them: all around the monument and spilling out across the rusty red of the tarmac that surrounded her and onto the green of St James’s Park. At the side, forming a human barrier between the crowd and the gold-topped railings of Buckingham Palace, a line of uniformed police officers in stab vests watched them.

  The blanket of teenagers stretched up the avenue that led away from the monument; stopping halfway in a wobbly line, like runners clustered at the start of the London Marathon. At the head of them was Jennifer Price, talking to a collection of journalists, TV cameras and fluffy microphones.

  Several rows back, Michael hid behind a couple of taller teenagers. He had no intention of getting his face on the news. It was enough to be part of the crowd and soak up the feeling of so many people gathered together in a single cause. There was so much excitement, anticipation, trepidation and every other possible emotion, he couldn’t possibly block everything out. And so the melee of minds continued to buzz at the edge of his perception.

  A couple of girls behind him started a chant: “What do we abhor? We abhor the cure” As they repeated it, more joined in, including Michael, who answered the question with all his heart, “we abhor the cure”. It was an amazing feeling, like he was truly part of something. The adrenaline as he shouted the same thing with everyone around him – magnified by a shared perception of their feelings – was unbelievably empowering.

  As the chants continued, a portion of the crowd became out of synch. Some teenagers started to giggle. Others blew whistles in time to the rhythm, until it broke down in a cacophony of noise. It didn’t diminish their spirit. If anything, it enhanced it. They clapped and cheered and the whistles continued to blow.

  Michael felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Otis standing next to him.

  “It’s like a carnival!” shouted Otis over the noise.

  “Where have you been?” said Michael.

  A morning of difficulties were expressed in one single frown. “Police diverted the bus, I had to come round a different way.”

  Otis had his phone in his palm displaying a news site. Michael craned his neck to see: Thousands of Perceivers Gather for Demo, said the headline. It was remarkable to think only a few days ago, perceivers who feared the cure had hidden their identity from others. Now they were standing together with one voice for everyone to see.

  Some of them started to chant: “Ten … nine … eight …”

  “What’s going on?” Michael shouted over the noise.

  “We’re setting off at one,” said Otis. He showed Michael his phone, its clock counting down the seconds. Otis joined in: “Five … four …”

  Michael too – and everyone around him: “Three … two … ONE!”

  Cheers erupted. Those at the head of the crowd started to move forward. Like a ripple on the water played in slow motion, the movement flowed back through the assembled mass. Space opened up in front of them and they were walking – marching – away from St James’s Park, around to Birdcage Walk and towards Parliament Square.

  Ahead, Michael could
see Jennifer’s long sleek hair and the thin body. She thrust her fist in the air as she cried out: “What do we want?”

  The crowd replied: “We want a choice!”

  ‘What do we want to be?’

  In unison, fists punching: “We want to be ourselves!”

  Even from behind, she looked magnificent. She was out on her own now. The press had disappeared, off to file their stories, ring their editors or whatever it is the press do. The police kept a respectful distance at the sides of the marchers, walking like sheepdogs keeping an eye on their flock.

  Michael and Otis made their way through the crowd to meet Jennifer at the front.

  “Otis!” she cried with glee as soon as she saw him.

  “Look what you did!” said Otis, waving his arm out behind to indicate all her followers.

  “It’s amazing,” she said.

  Otis looked at his phone. “Police say we’ve got two thousand here – that’s a lie, there must be at least four.”

  “What about the other demo?”

  Otis ran his finger over his phone. “Pretty big turnout for Mrs Devilkidney’s lot,” he said.

  Jennifer giggled. “Angelheart,” she corrected and peered across at the news site on his phone. “Do you think their protest takes away from what we’re doing?”

  “No skankin’ way,” said Otis. He pocketed his phone and raised his fist: “What do we want?”

  Jennifer smiled: “We want a choice!” she shouted, along with everyone around her.

  “What do we want to be?”

  “We want to be ourselves!”

  They kept walking. Stretched out down the path, with the traffic of Birdcage Walk to their right, the leafless winter trees stretching up to the sky to their left, and the spacious green of the park beyond. On normal days it must be a tranquil place to walk through. But not that Monday. Any tranquillity it had was chased away by the noise of thousands of teenagers’ footsteps, voices and whistles.

  As they approached the end of Birdcage Walk, the iconic tower of Westminster, with its gold-edged clock face housing Big Ben, appeared from behind the buildings on the right of the street. Jennifer strode forward towards the target with renewed confidence.

  But Otis was hesitant. He nudged Michael’s elbow and pointed ahead. “What’s that?”

  Where the line of trees stopped, the park ended and the road led into the bustle of Westminster, stood a line of figures in black and white.

  “Police,” said Michael.

  Officers in black stab vests over white shirts lined up to block their path. Behind them, risen up on horseback, were half a dozen mounted police.

  Jennifer slowed her pace. “What’s going on?” she asked Otis.

  He ran his fingers over his phone. He shook his head. “Dunno.”

  Behind him, loud worried conversations broke out.

  “We need to stop them,” she said. And, without missing a beat, she jumped out in front of the crowd and raised her hands aloft. “Stop!” she cried.

  Her single voice was virtually lost among the noise of several thousand people, but a few at the front – already uneasy – came to a halt.

  Otis – his body bigger and more impressive – also jumped out in front of the crowd. “Stop!” He went up and down the line urging everyone to stay where they were.

  The marchers bunched up into a huddle. A policeman broke free from the line and walked towards them. Jennifer met him halfway.

  They talked.

  Michael wanted to perceive them, but with so many people around, it was impossible to filter them out. He couldn’t hear them either and so was reduced to looking at their body language which suggested a fierce discussion was going on.

  Jennifer ran back to join the marchers. People clustered around her. “They’re not letting us into Parliament Square,” she said.

  “What?” said Otis.

  “I thought you agreed the route with them,” said Michael.

  “So did I,” said Jennifer. “The AAMI demo’s gone off the agreed route. The police want to divert us up Horse Guards Road.”

  Otis consulted his phone and pulled up a road map of the area. “That’s basically a walk around the edge of the park. No way. Jen, you gotta tell ’em, there’s no way.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?!” she said.

  Otis typed something on his phone.

  Michael put his hand between Otis’s fingers and the screen. “What are you doing?”

  “Posting to the group,” he said.

  “Otis, no,” said Jennifer. “Police don’t want trouble.”

  “That’s exactly what they’re gonna get if people don’t know why we’ve stopped,” said Otis.

  Michael removed his hand and Otis sent his message. Within minutes, everyone knew. Knowledge spread through the crowd in a hail of bleeping phones and raised voices. The buzz at the edge of Michael’s perception turned to disquiet. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

  Otis tapped Michael on the shoulder. He showed him a live newsfeed being streamed to his phone. Video of Mrs Angelheart, in a vibrant red coat, leading a swarm of adults across Westminster Bridge played on the screen. AAMI diverts from agreed demonstration route … read the words scrolling along the bottom … Marchers now heading for Parliament Square: clash with rival perceivers demo feared …

  The video switched to a graphic of a map. It showed that Mrs Angelheart and her gang of vigilante followers had – instead of turning to walk along the embankment of the River Thames after crossing the bridge – continued straight down Bridge Street, which took them directly into Parliament Square.

  Michael grabbed the phone to look closer. The site was being updated as he read … unconfirmed reports say sympathisers within the police may have allowed them to take the detour, forcing colleagues to stop the perceivers in their tracks …

  The tension around him was building. Most of the teenagers were probably looking up the same news site.

  A couple of perceivers broke out from the ranks. Followed – spontaneously – by another dozen. Charging like hooligans towards the police line. The police officers who had quietly flanked them since leaving the park rushed in to stop them getting as far as the cordon. They caught a couple of protestors: one by the arms, pulling him back so his limbs flailed helplessly; another by the hood of her top, swinging her round; another slipping from the officer’s grasp and running free.

  As many as ten made it and ran head-long towards the police cordon.

  Jennifer turned – panicked – “You’ve got to post for everyone to be calm.”

  Otis instantly typed, but the time for appeals had passed.

  From somewhere Michael didn’t see, the police pulled riot shields. They formed a plastic barricade between them and the protestors. The ten who’d made it through, bounced off the riot shields like tiny children bouncing off the wall of an inflatable castle.

  Others ran to join them. Suddenly Jennifer, Otis and Michael were standing in a sea of running and shouting teenagers. Some rushing towards the cordon, others simply trying to get out of the way.

  “What do we do?” said Jennifer, still panicking.

  Otis clutched his phone, scrolling through screen after screen. “This is bad.”

  “What?” Jennifer grabbed it off him. She read. Michael didn’t need to perceive her to know she agreed with Otis’s assessment. Her face turned ashen. She let the phone hang limp. Michael took it from her.

  Anonymous posts urged people to rush the police line. Several others suggested possible ways round the cordon.

  “We need to go,” said Otis.

  He didn’t wait for an answer from Jennifer. He ran back the way they had come and, within seconds, he was lost in the crowd.

  “Should we follow him?” said Jennifer.

  In that moment, she looked like a little girl again. Her magnificence destroyed by the same crowd who had given it to her.

  Michael shrugged. “Probably not, but let’s do it anyway.”

/>   They charged into the crowd. Dodging the other protestors, until they saw a mop of shocking blond hair bobbing in and out of view. They followed.

  The crowd thickened and, steadily, Otis’s pace slowed. The teenagers had formed a bottleneck at a turning where at least a hundred of them were trying to get through a gap capable of taking no more than half a dozen at a time. Michael clasped Jennifer’s hand and pushed his way through. He trod on somebody’s foot.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry.”

  But kept pushing until they were up alongside Otis. “What’s going on?” Michael asked him.

  Otis shouted over the excited voices of the crowd: “We’re going to march on Parliament whether the police want us to or not!”

  “Yeah! Yeah!” cheered the crowd in reply. They were carried along by the pressure of bodies pushing against them as Michael perceived a confusion of emotions: the thrill of out-smarting the police, the unity of acting all together, the anxiety and excitement of knowing they were breaking the law, and the panic of some stuck in the middle.

  Eventually, the bottleneck widened out into Old Queen’s Street. Teenagers spilled out over the paths and the road. A car behind them bibbed its horn, but no one got out of the way. There was the sense of determination now.

  Tens of posts on Otis’s phone had worked out the same route: turn right at the end, down Storey’s Gate, left onto Victoria Street and all the way up to Parliament Square.

  They were marching again. From somewhere in the midst of the crowd, a couple of people started off the chant again. “What do we abhor?”

  Michael joined in: “We abhor the cure!”

  The chant continued, but Michael saw Otis and Jennifer weren’t taking part. Otis passed his phone to Jennifer.

  “What’s up?” said Michael.

  “The AAMI—” His voice was drowned out.

  ‘We abhor the cure!’

  “What?”

  “Angelheart’s lot,” Otis shouted above the noise. “They’re already in Parliament Square.”