Pankhurst stood up. “I can’t be seen talking to her. Have you seen the news today? Kids like her are killing people right now in London. Five are dead. God knows what the death toll’s going to be when the day’s over.”
“Sit down,” said Ransom.
“No.” Pankhurst fastened the button of his jacket as if making to leave. “I agreed to come to see you, Brian, because we’re old friends; because you gave generously to my campaign at the last election and because you’ve been good to my government. But I will not sit down in a room with the perpetrators of violence. I can see myself out.”
With two long strides, he was at the door.
“At least hear what she has to say,” Ransom called after him, getting out of his chair and rushing – far quicker than it looked like his body would manage – towards the door.
Ransom gripped the door handle and stopped Pankhurst reaching for it. “You’re here now,” said Ransom. “At least listen to us.”
Pankhurst frowned and looked at his watch. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” he said.
“Thank you, Prime Minister.”
“But Brian, if this was anyone else …”
“I understand, Prime Minister. Please sit down.” Ransom led Pankhurst back to the sofas. They sat. Tension grew between them. The friendliness of those first handshakes had evaporated.
Michael, Otis and Jennifer watched. Mary Ransom stood clutching and unclutching her fingers. She tried to pretend not to be staring at Michael.
Ransom cleared his throat. “Mary, why don’t you see if Rachel can spare us any of that coffee?”
“Of course,” said Mrs Ransom. “Milk, cream, sugar …?”
“Just bring a tray of everything,” said Ransom.
“Of course.” She took the hint and left the lounge.
Ransom leant over and picked up two glasses of water left on a table by the side. He passed one to Pankhurst. “You can’t win this war, you know,” said Ransom.
“I don’t negotiate with people who incite others to riot,” said Pankhurst. He shot an accusing glance at Jennifer.
“I didn’t,” she protested. “I wanted a peaceful—”
Ransom put up his hand and silenced her. “This is a bigger issue than today. You’re not going to get rid of perception.”
Pankhurst looked at him sideways, trying to figure him out. “You were the one who invented the cure.”
“So,” said Ransom, “would it surprise you to know that I’m a perceiver?”
Pankhurst gagged on his water. He coughed and spat. The glass in his hand shook with the spasms. Ransom took it away from him. Pankhurst continued to cough. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and put it over his mouth until the spasms subsided and he breathed without wheezing.
“Cooper didn’t tell you then?”
“Brian, you’re not serious.”
“Very much so. My son is also a perceiver.”
Pankhurst glared at Michael.
“The young man here—”
“Otis,” said Otis.
“—is a perceiver,” said Ransom. “And, as you probably know—”
“I used to be a perceiver,” said Jennifer, “but I was cured against my will.”
Pankhurst looked round the room like a victim backed into a corner. “I’m in a room with three people who can read my mind?”
Ransom smiled. “We don’t read minds. That’s a common misconception. Well, perhaps my son can a little bit.” Pankhurst stared at Michael again. There was an anxiety coming from him this time. Pankhurst stood. “Theo!” he shouted.
Michael stepped towards Pankhurst, concentrating hard, perceiving everything he could from him. “You’re scared,” he said. “You think a man like you who has national secrets in his head shouldn’t be in the room with a group of perceivers.”
The lounge door burst open and a man in a suit rushed in. “Prime Minister?” he said, his face red with urgency.
“I need to leave, Theo,” said Pankhurst. “Right now.”
“Sir.”
Pankhurst walked towards the safety of his security guard.
Michael called after him. “I’m only reading your emotions. I couldn’t go into your head and pull out national secrets if I wanted to.”
Pankhurst was at the door. Michael glanced across at Ransom, knowing their chance for influence was walking away from them. “My father’s right – perceivers are here, you’re not going to get rid of us!”
Theo opened the door for Pankhurst to walk through.
Michael ran. He followed them out into the hallway. “I’m like him because I inherited perception from him,” he said. “You think you’re going to get rid of perception by curing one generation of teenagers? It won’t work.”
The rest of the entourage emerged from another room. They crowded in on him. Someone opened the front door. Through the bodies suddenly in front of him, Michael saw Pankhurst’s head disappearing through the doorway. “What happens to the teenagers when they grow up and have babies?” said Michael.
Michael tried to go after him, but the large body of a man with a curly wire hanging from his ear blocked the way. “Prime Minister?” called Michael, but he was gone.
He watched the rest of the suited gaggle depart from the house. All of them, apart from the one blocking Michael’s way, filed out neatly. Then the large man stepped backwards, keeping his eye on Michael, until he was out of the house and had closed the front door behind him.
Michael swore.
He went back into the lounge. He saw the expectant faces of Jennifer, Otis and Ransom. It took only a moment for Otis and Ransom to perceive Michael had been wasting his breath.
Jennifer, however, was still optimistic. “Well?”
“He’s not going to listen, Jennifer. He’s a norm. He’s scared of us.”
Michael stepped further inside and flopped on the sofa next to Ransom.
His father put a reassuring hand on his knee. “You can’t blame me for trying, son.”
Michael shrugged. It seemed pointless. The whole skanking thing was pointless: the demonstration, the ride out to Beaconsfield, the whole skanking lot.
The rattling of cups roused Michael from his despair. Mrs Ransom was returning with the promised tray of coffee.
“’Fraid you missed the Prime Minister,” Otis noted, ironically.
“That was rather the point, wasn’t it?” she said.
“What are you talking about, Mary?” said Ransom.
“I’ve been married to you long enough to know that when you ask me to make coffee, it’s because you want me out of the room.”
“It’s not like that, Mary.”
“It is, Brian. But that’s okay.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Mrs Ransom, putting the tray down on the table.
Jennifer’s face lit up. “Perhaps Pankhurst’s changed his mind? Perhaps he wants to talk.”
Otis tutted. “Perhaps one of them left their gun in the bathroom.”
A perception touched the edge of Michael’s mind. Like a familiar smell far away. He sat up and concentrated. He knew what it was, but he couldn’t put a name to it. Like recognising a voice on the radio and not knowing who it belongs to.
Through the open lounge door, he heard Mrs Ransom. “Of course, come in.” The presence became stronger.
“Shit,” said Michael.
“What?” said Jennifer.
“Cooper.”
“Here?” she said.
Otis looked accusingly at Ransom. “Did you call him?”
“No.”
Michael got up. He looked to his father. “Is there a back way out of here?”
Before there was time for an answer, Cooper walked into the lounge.
Michael bolted for the other door, the one Mrs Ransom had used.
Through it, confronted by stairs leading up, he hesitated. No way out. But no way back either. He didn’t need to look behind him, he perceived Cooper getting clo
ser.
He scrambled up the stairs.
His breath and his pumping heart were loud in his ears.
At the top of the stairs was a landing and other doors. Maybe there was a bedroom window he could get out of.
Something grabbed his foot.
Michael pulled it back. He felt his shoe slip from his sock.
He kept going.
Another tug at the bottom of his trouser leg. He tried to take the next step, but the hand had him firm this time. He slipped. He missed the step entirely and fell on his face. His hands scratched at the stair carpet, but they couldn’t get a grip. He bumped down from step to step – bashing his elbow, bashing his knee, clunking his head – until he reached the bottom. His body stopped and he felt the sting of a dozen bruises.
He turned himself round. Standing above him was Cooper. “We meet on the stairs again,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MICHAEL WAS back in the cell.
It all seemed pointless. The escape, finding Jennifer, the march – they’d all led back to where he’d started. He lay on the bed, looked at the four walls of his cell and didn’t care if they were the only thing he would ever see for the rest of his life.
The rhythmic clunks and clicks of the cell door being unlocked caused him to shift position and prop himself up on one elbow. He perceived who it was before the door was opened.
Cooper stood in the doorway. He was the same slightly chubby man, except he’d smartened himself up a bit. The cut of his suit hid the paunch of his belly. He had shaved. He was wearing a tie. His mood, however, was still its usual smug.
“Morning, Michael, how are you today?”
“Like you care.”
“I do actually,” said Cooper.
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“If you like.” He put his hands in his trouser pockets and slumped. “Thought any more about my job offer?”
“Working for the government who wants to screw all perceivers?” He pursed his lips in a mock thinking expression. “That’s a tough one …”
“We can talk about that later,” said Cooper. “Stand up, I’m taking you for a walk.”
Cooper called in the guard from outside. The guard handcuffed Michael’s wrists behind his back and led him out of the cell.
The three of them left the cell block and went across the complex to the building that housed Cooper’s office. He was led upstairs and along the corridor and, as they got closer, he perceived a presence he recognised. He was still trying to place it when Cooper stopped outside the door of his own office and knocked.
“Come!” said a voice inside.
Cooper opened the door. And there, sitting in the executive chair, behind the executive desk, was John Pankhurst. The Prime Minister, with trademark bright tie of orange and blue stripes, beckoned them forward. “Come in, come in.”
Michael wasn’t aware he was standing with his mouth open until the guard shoved him forward.
Cooper stood awkwardly to attention. “Michael Ransom, sir.”
“So I see,” said Pankhurst. “Do take a seat, Mr Ransom.”
It took a second for Michael to realise the Prime Minister was talking to him. With tentative steps, he moved away from the guard and put his bum in the seat on the near side of the desk. It was awkward to sit with his arms behind his back, so he perched on the edge of the chair.
“Bill, we don’t need those cuffs, do we?” said Pankhurst to Cooper.
“Sir?”
“I mean, I’m in no danger from the boy, am I?”
“With respect, sir, he did once stab me in the stomach.”
The Prime Minister looked across the desk at Michael. “You’re not going to stab me, are you?”
It took a moment for Michael to realise he was supposed to reply. “No, Prime Minister.” He hastily added, “Sir.”
“There you are, then,” said Pankhurst.
“If you’re sure, sir,” said Cooper.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Bill. As I understand it, it’s his mind that’s the real threat to me, not his arms.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cooper ordered the guard to remove the cuffs. Michael felt the relief of his wrists being free of the metal and his back being able to rest firmly on the chair.
“Thank you, Bill. You can leave us now.”
“Sir?”
Michael perceived Cooper’s unease at being ordered about in his own office. And being ordered to do something he didn’t want to do, at that.
“Is there a problem with your ability to understand English today? It’s a simple request. Go away.”
“But, sir—”
“You can post a guard outside the door if it’ll make you feel any better. I promise I’ll yell if the young fellow tries to stab me.”
Rankled, Cooper nodded and departed.
The door closed. Michael was left to face the Prime Minister. He concentrated on the man. There was none of the fear he had possessed back at Ransom’s house. He was confident, in control, at ease. His thoughts, though, were strange. Tuneful, even: I was strolling in the park one day, in the merry merry month of May …
He was singing in his head.
“I’m told,” said Pankhurst, “if I think about nonsense, like having a song playing in my head, it can block your perception.”
“Well,” said Michael. “Perceivers occasionally pick up strong surface thoughts. If the song is the thing you’re thinking about …”
“Quite so. But you are different. Bill Cooper tells me you’re stronger than most.”
“He tells me that too,” said Michael.
A smile from the Prime Minister. “You can pick up more than thoughts on the surface?”
“Surface thoughts are easy for me. Going deeper is … hard.”
“But you can – go deeper, I mean?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s what worries me.” The Prime Minister stood from the chair, turned and looked out of the window. “Come and look at this.”
Michael didn’t move. It didn’t seem right somehow. The whole meeting was kinda surreal.
“Well, come on,” said Pankhurst. “I’m not going to throw you out from the first floor.”
Michael did as he was told. It meant he stood next to the Prime Minister, so close he could smell his aftershave.
“Look at those people.”
Michael looked out at the complex below. A group of four teenagers in khaki left the building opposite and turned right; two men with rifles slung over their shoulders stood guard at the gate; a woman driving a red car headed towards the car park.
“They have many things on their minds,” said Pankhurst. “They’re wondering how they can get through the day without upsetting the boss, what they’re going to cook their children for tea, how they’re going to pay the mortgage this month.” He pointed to the woman getting out of the red car. “Perhaps she’s wondering how she’s going to tell her husband she’s pregnant.” He pointed to one of the guards at the gate. “He might be wondering how he can get through the day with a hangover, his colleague might be thinking about how he hates guard duty.
“But you can tell none of this from looking at them,” Pankhurst continued. “It’s private to them. The thought that other people might be able to see what’s in their head – it scares them.”
“Why are you telling me this?” said Michael. “Are you trying to convince me all perceivers should be cured?”
“Maybe I’m trying to convince myself.” The Prime Minister, suddenly reflective, turned away from the window and leant back against the glass. “You said some things at your father’s house that made me think. All this time, I’ve listened to people like Bill Cooper and my advisors and … well, I only listened to adults, really. I never listened to people like you.”
Michael perceived the man was being genuine. He’d really come to listen. Michael stepped back from the window and hopped up to sit on Cooper’s desk so the two of them faced each
other again.
“You should speak to Jennifer,” said Michael. “She’s the voice of perceivers.”
“Yes, well, Jennifer Price’s profile is a little public at the moment. If I met with her, it’d be all over the press. Whereas I can come to this facility and no one blinks an eye. Even my own staff think I’m in a private meeting with Bill Cooper.”
Pankhurst shifted his position against the window and self-consciously fiddled with his tie. “It was one of my staff who called him, by the way; when I was at your father’s house. He recognised you or Jennifer. Sorry about that.”
Michael had wondered how Cooper had known he was there. Not as if it mattered now. He was more interested in why the Prime Minister had come to see him. “There was something I said that made you think?” prompted Michael.
“Hmm,” considered Pankhurst. “You said, ‘what happens to the teenagers when they grow up and have babies?’ In all the briefings I’ve had, it was never a question I asked. I wish I had now.”
The man was worried, and he made no attempt to hide it. There was no song in his head, just the thought that he’d screwed up. That, in offering a solution to the problem of perceivers, he’d made the situation worse. That ‘the cure’ was no cure at all. That all it did was sweep the issue under the carpet. And it would taint his legacy forever.
“You’re thinking the problem won’t go away,” said Michael.
Pankhurst frowned. “I’m thinking you should stop perceiving me and answer your own question: what happens to the teenagers when they grow up and have babies?”
“I don’t know the science of it, all I know is that there were perceivers out there, like my father, before all this fuss about teenagers started. You didn’t know about it because they hid it from everyone. I inherited it from my parents, I don’t know if teenage perceivers will pass it onto their kids.”
“But the cure—”
“Doesn’t cure anything,” said Michael. “It blocks perception. It doesn’t take away the genetic trait that made them perceivers in the first place.”
“So curing teenagers won’t solve the problem long term,” said the Prime Minister, thinking aloud.
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