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

by Killick, Jane

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” said Michael. “But that’s not really the point. The point is, the cure isn’t a solution. We haven’t got a disease. What we have is another sense, like hearing or seeing. It’s normal for us. It’s like—” Michael tried to think of an example “—it’s like how they used to treat disabled people: lock them up in an institution and forget about them, keep them out of sight because they’re not ‘normal’. Don’t let half the population vote because they’re women. Don’t sit next to that man on the bus because he’s a different colour. I thought we’d moved on from that.”

  “Are you accusing me of being a bigot?” The thought appalled the Prime Minister.

  “You thought you were doing the right thing,” said Michael, trying to be conciliatory.

  But Pankhurst wasn’t ready to give up the argument, not yet. “Some teenagers want to be cured, you can’t deny that.”

  “It’s like Jennifer said,” explained Michael. “You need to give people a choice. Don’t force them to have the cure. It’s not just ‘a little injection’ like they say on the advert, you know. It goes into our heads and stops part of our brain from working. It takes away one of our senses – like someone had poked you in the eyes and blinded you.”

  The Prime Minister was taken aback. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Have you seen it happen to one of your friends?”

  No. Pankhurst allowed the thought to betray him. I can’t imagine.

  “Jennifer isn’t the same person I used to know,” said Michael. “I don’t think she ever will be.”

  A ringing burst from Pankhurst’s jacket. “Blasted hell!” He delved into his inside pocket and pulled out his phone. “Yep?” he said, putting it to his ear. “Just finishing up … No, no, I’ll see you over there … Right … Five minutes.”

  He hung up. “I need to go, otherwise I’ll be late for my next appointment, or so they tell me. Thanks for our little chat.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Michael.

  The Prime Minister didn’t know. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. He pushed away from the window and strolled over to the door. He poked his head outside. “You can take him back now.”

  The guard came in brandishing the handcuffs. Michael’s esteem fell. One minute he was being treated as a personal advisor to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the next he was being treated as a common criminal. The guard forced Michael’s hands behind his back and secured the cuffs to his wrists in front of Pankhurst, adding to his humiliation.

  The guard led Michael to the door.

  “Wait a minute,” said Pankhurst.

  The guard halted. Michael turned round.

  “I understand Bill has offered you a job.”

  “Yeah,” said Michael.

  “You should take it.”

  Michael had no intention of taking Cooper’s skanking job.

  Pankhurst smiled. “If perceivers are here to stay, like you suggest, then we’ll need people like you. Strong perceivers who can put their skills to good use, to help the country.”

  “I told Cooper I’d think about it.” He’d told Cooper no such thing, but it sounded like the sort of thing he should say to the Prime Minister.

  “Then think about saying yes,” said Pankhurst. “I don’t know you at all, Michael, but I know your father. The idiot may have lied to me about being a perceiver, but he’s been a friend to me in the past. So I can only assume the best of you. And, I have to say, Michael, this is no life for you.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “You can take the job. From where I’m standing, it’s the best choice.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  MICHAEL WAS OVERWHELMED by the vastness of Westminster Hall. Its stone walls were as high as ten men standing on each other’s shoulders and reached up to a vaulted wooden ceiling. So spacious, it was like being in a shopping mall, except it was built in medieval times, centuries before the word ‘shopping’ was invented. At the other end were stone steps that spanned the width of the hall and climbed the two metres to the next level, where a most magnificent stained glass window sparkled with coloured light. Not so much a window, more a wall – floor to ceiling – of thousands of blue, yellow, green, red and purple glass pieces radiating in the sunlight behind. With such majesty that it made Michael realise what a small, insignificant human being he was.

  Just, he suspected, as the craftsmen who made it had intended.

  Michael walked the length of the hall and climbed the stone steps. At the next level, he turned left to where two policemen in shirt sleeves stood guard at a stone archway that led into a different room. He perceived no animosity from them. They nodded and he walked through.

  The buzz of other minds greeted him. Curious, awed and a few excited – but all unthreatening. He shut out their thoughts – some of them in German, others in Japanese – and continued walking. A souvenir shop on the left offered to take his money in return for little trinkets, but its lure was nothing to the history all around him. Oversize stone statues of historic figures in the wigs and breeches of times past stood watching from the sides. Giant paintings depicting the scenes of ancient battles and long-dead aristocracy filled the walls. All of it illuminated by stained glass above, and the electric bulbs of half a dozen chandeliers.

  A tour guide surrounded by a group of schoolchildren was explaining, “… when King Henry VIII moved out of here in the sixteenth century …”

  Michael walked on into the central lobby. After the vastness of Westminster Hall, and the opulence of St Stephen’s Hall, it seemed oddly small. He walked across its floor of patterned tiles to where a man in a frock coat greeted him. The man looked entirely at home in his traditional outfit of white stiff-collared shirt, white bow tie and black waistcoat with a golden seal resting where his belly button was.

  Michael showed him his ticket.

  “This way, sir.” He opened an ornate door of solid wood for him to pass through.

  Inside, it was plain and functional, like some kind of servants’ entrance. Stone stairs, covered in modern carpet, led up to a younger man in a frock coat who directed him to a cloakroom area. Michael handed over his rucksack to a similarly dressed woman, who placed it in a pigeonhole behind her and, in return, gave him a round plastic tag with the number 45 on it.

  He was directed through another door, and another corridor, into a gallery of green padded benches overlooking the debating chamber of the House of Commons.

  Jennifer sat in the front row, watching the MPs file into their seats below. Her hair was as sleek and black as ever, and her body disguised beneath her large coat. Michael made his way towards her. As he did so, a face topped with shocking blond hair peered out from the other side. It was Otis. He smiled at Michael – perceived him coming, probably – and gave Jennifer a little nudge.

  “Michael!” she said, her voice uninhibited.

  “Shh,” went an adult behind.

  Jennifer hugged him, bringing him close enough to smell the perfume of her shampoo mixed with the essence of her. While, at the same time, he perceived her delight at seeing him. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Michael, what are you doing here?”

  “Same thing you are,” he said.

  Otis reached round and offered his hand. They shook in a manly fashion. “Michael mate, how ya doin’?”

  Jennifer nudged them both. “It’s starting.”

  MPs had filled the benches of the chamber to the point where latecomers had to stand just inside the entrance. In the middle of one of the front benches down the side sat John Pankhurst, clutching a folder of notes. He’d even changed his usual bright tie for a serious grey one.

  At the far end, the Speaker – a black robe slung over his regular suit, and sitting on a throne-like chair – announced to the House: “The Prime Minister.”

  John Pankhurst rose from his seat and placed his folder of printed notes on the dispatch box. The shuffling and hubbub from the assemb
led MPs settled down.

  “It can have escaped no one’s attention that just over three weeks ago, two factions of our society clashed in Parliament Square,” said Pankhurst, his voice amplified by a microphone in front of him. “As I expressed to the House at the time, I was appalled at the loss of life and injuries that resulted.”

  Murmurs of, “Hear, hear,” from the benches.

  “But that one incident was merely the latest to explode from the increasing tensions that have been building since we first learnt of the existence of perceivers. It is clear to me that we cannot ignore this tension any longer. I fear to do so would lead to more clashes within society and possible further loss of life. In short, something has to be done.”

  Michael perceived a glimmer of hope inside Jennifer—

  “I stand by the work being done by the cure clinics,” said Pankhurst. “They are doing an excellent job of restoring many of our teenagers to normality.”

  —only for it to wither again.

  “But it is not enough. And it is not the right solution for everyone. Over the past weeks, I have consulted with many people. Many suggestions for a way forward have been considered. But I believe the following is the best hope for bringing peace and tranquillity to our streets again.”

  He paused for dramatic effect and looked at his notes before looking back up at the crammed chamber. “Perceivers will be given a choice over whether or not to take the cure—”

  Jeers from the benches opposite interrupted him as MPs waved their order papers in disapproval.

  “At last,” said Jennifer under her breath.

  “Yes, yes, a choice,” said Pankhurst over the noise. “Just as we – as members of a free society – are free to express choices in many other aspects of our lives.”

  “Shame!” shouted a grey-haired man with glasses, sitting on the back row.

  The Prime Minister continued regardless. “Perceivers who decide not to take the cure will receive education to help them control their perceptions so the majority of the population can live without fear. And we shall educate the wider community to understand that perceivers are not mind invaders, but merely ordinary people with a sixth sense who want to go about their ordinary lives.

  “Furthermore, it will become an offence to discriminate against perceivers.”

  Michael closed his eyes and leant back against the bench. “Yes,” he said to himself. Such a relief.

  Beneath him, uproar broke out among the MPs. So many people shouting at once, it was difficult to hear anything more than a collective rabble. They waved their order papers in the air, fluttering like a flock of white birds. Michael perceived only a few of them were actually angry, it was mostly bluster.

  “Order!” cried the Speaker.

  None of the politicians paid any attention. The jeerers kept jeering. Loyalists around the Prime Minister shouted back for them to be quiet.

  “Order!”

  The jeers subsided a little.

  “No longer will it be allowed …” Pankhurst shouted across the House, just about managing to be heard. “No longer will our teenagers have to worry they won’t be allowed into a certain school or sports club because they are perceivers. No longer will taunts in the playground or in the streets be tolerated. And, when they reach working age, it will be illegal to refuse to give them a job because they are a perceiver.”

  MPs opposite were still jeering like badly behaved schoolboys. Pankhurst diverted from his prepared speech and looked across the floor. “I think honourable members on the other side of the House forget what sort of society we’re trying to build in this country. Once upon a time, it was acceptable to discriminate against someone because they were a different colour, a different religion, the ‘fairer sex’, in a wheelchair …”

  “We don’t need a history lesson!” shouted a buxom woman in a powder blue suit from the back. Laughter rose up around her, filling the chamber.

  “I think the honourable lady does indeed need a history lesson,” said Pankhurst. “Until 1918, not only would it have not been permitted for her to sit on that bench as a Member of Parliament, she wouldn’t have been allowed to vote to decide which man would be sitting on that bench. Because she is a woman. I think she will agree we’ve grown as a nation since then and we rightly see those laws as barbaric and discriminatory. Perceivers are the new minority in this country. It is right that they be allowed to live like any other person. Therefore, my government will be outlawing discrimination against perceivers and I call on every member of this House to do their bit to encourage integration into society.”

  He closed his folder and sat back down on the bench behind with finality. There was uproar from the chamber.

  Jennifer could hold back her excitement no longer. She stood up and cheered. She grabbed Otis round the neck and hugged him. Then she turned and hugged Michael. MPs below looked up to see what the kerfuffle was. Adults in the gallery gave the teenagers a stern look and mumbled disapprovingly.

  A frock-coated man approached them. “Guests are required to sit down and be quiet,” he said, “or you will be asked to leave.”

  Back in the chamber beneath, the Speaker was calling the MPs to order again. “Questions for the Prime Minister,” his amplified voice announced. He nodded at an opposition backbencher. “Douglas Pendleton.”

  A plain-looking man with thick-rimmed glasses stood. “In my constituency, many of the local shopkeepers have had to close their doors because of high business rates. Would the Prime Minister agree …?”

  Otis turned away from the proceedings. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Jennifer, grinning widely. “I don’t want to stay somewhere where I have to sit and be quiet. I want to celebrate!”

  Jennifer and Otis joined Michael as he retraced his steps to the cloakroom and headed back downstairs.

  “Can you believe it?” Jennifer was saying, her voice echoing up and down the stone staircase.

  “Only because I heard it with my own ears,” said Otis. “Michael, did you perceive him? Did Pankhurst mean it?”

  “He meant it,” said Michael. He hadn’t made the effort to filter out Pankhurst’s emotions from the crowd of jeering Members of Parliament, but he knew from their previous meeting that the man was sincere.

  Once in the central lobby, they were directed back into St Stephen’s Hall where the tourist throng hung around the historic paintings and statues.

  “I’m going to get a souvenir!” said Jennifer. Michael and Otis followed as she rushed over to the gift shop.

  “What about a pen?” She pulled a biro from a display of pencils, rulers and bookmarks. It was green with the words House of Commons and a picture of a crowned portcullis on it, embossed in gold. She picked up a packet with a picture of the Big Ben clock tower on it. “Hey look, they do the thing where you cut out cardboard to make your own Big Ben.” She looked around again. “Ooh, House of Commons chocolate.”

  “Jen, you’re behaving like a five-year-old,” said Otis.

  “Who cares?” she said. “We won!” Jennifer added the chocolate to the rest of the stuff in her arms and went off to the till.

  Michael watched her, amused. “All this – today – wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for Jennifer,” he said.

  “Organising the demonstration?” said Otis.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think your father inviting the PM to his house might have had something to do with it.”

  Michael shrugged it off. “Maybe.”

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again after that day,” said Otis. “What happened?”

  “With Cooper?” said Michael.

  “With Cooper,” said Otis.

  “He offered me a job.”

  Otis looked at him, perceived him. “You’re being serious.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You took it?”

  “Yeah,” said Michael.

  “I thought …” Otis faltered, trying to figure it out. “Wasn’t he the
guy you were running away from?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But—”

  Michael interrupted. “I had no choice.”

  “You have a choice,” said Otis. “We heard the Prime Minister say so.”

  “There’s no choice, not for me. Jennifer’s gone back to her family and you don’t live in the squat anymore. I don’t know anyone else. The only thing I know about my family is the despicable things my father did. I have a mother – well, two mothers, really – but I don’t remember them, I don’t love them. I can’t remember anything about my old life and I never will.”

  “So, what are you going to do?” said Otis. “In this job, I mean?”

  “Do what perceivers do. Look into other people’s minds.”

  Jennifer returned from the till with a House of Commons bag full of stuff.

  “Michael’s going to be a spy,” Otis told her.

  “I’m not going to be a spy,” he said.

  “What else would you call it?” said Otis.

  Michael didn’t want to call it anything. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Are we going or what?” he said.

  They made their way out through the throng of tourists, down the steps into Westminster Hall and towards the visitors’ exit. Otis spotted a sign to the toilets and dashed off, leaving Michael and Jennifer together in the ancient space.

  “You and Otis are together then?” Michael asked.

  “Not really,” said Jennifer. “With him in London and me back home, it’s difficult.”

  Michael thought about telling her, then, how he felt about her. That he thought she was fantastic, that it was wonderful to see the light in her eyes again. But he perceived a sadness about her when she thought of Otis. When she thought of Michael, she felt nothing more than a warm friendship.

  “The thing is, Michael,” said Jennifer, “I’m not a ’ceiver anymore.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said.

  Emotion welled within her as she tried to keep it under control. “Me and Otis, we used to be …” She sighed. “How do I explain it? When we used to kiss … it was a lovely feeling. His lips ignited a fire within me and I knew mine did the same for him because I could perceive it. It was as if we became the same person, enhancing each other’s feelings as we ’ceived each other. Now when we kiss, it’s nice but …”