Mindscape

by M. M. Vaughan

  “And what happened?” asked Sir Bentley, ignoring Ms. Lamb.

  Chris explained everything that had happened—surprising Ernest, their conversation, the chase, and then the fight in the club.

  “Did you see the injured boy?” asked Sir Bentley.

  “No, of course not,” replied Ms. Lamb, “he’s lying. He was just leaving when I found him. There was nobody else there. And then he had the nerve to try to involve Charles, who, of course, didn’t know what was going on.”

  “Ernest ran out when you grabbed me,” said Chris, raising his voice.

  “How convenient,” said Ms. Lamb with a sneer.

  Sir Bentley put his head in his hands, and both Chris and Ms. Lamb sat in silence, watching him as he processed everything that Chris had said. Finally, he looked up at Chris, and when he spoke, he did so calmly but firmly.

  “Christopher. You say you have seen this boy three times now. The first two times, there were many people with you, and not one person was able to back up your claims. Tonight, you admit that you entered Ms. Lamb’s mind because you thought she was acting a little strange. That is inexcusable. If you had really been that concerned, you could have spoken to one of us. I think it’s quite clear that you entered her mind to find out about her personal affairs. Now you get caught following Ms. Lamb on a private excursion, at night, on your own in the middle of London, and then, when you’re found out, you tell us that you saw the boy—”

  “But I did! Please, sir, I know—”

  Sir Bentley raised his hand to stop him.

  “Enough. In your defense, I think that you are having an exceptionally hard time following the death of that boy—more so, perhaps, than any of us had realized. The other times you thought you saw the boy, for example. And the matter of Mr. Valedictoriat.”

  Chris flinched. “You know about that?”

  “I know the state the room was in the next day. I know that he asked to be reassigned a day later. I put two and two together.”

  “Oh,” said Chris, looking down. He had been right—Mr. Valedictoriat had left because of him.

  “We have a responsibility to you for the things that have happened,” continued Sir Bentley, “and I intend to make sure we take care of you, but your actions tonight were completely irresponsible. You have left me no choice.”

  Chris, although he had expected it, felt his heart sink.

  “You are suspended.”

  Chris’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Suspended? Is that all?” shouted Ms. Lamb.

  “Yes, we must take some of the responsibility also, Gertrude. The suspension will be for one week to reflect the seriousness of what you have done. It will give you some time to consider your behavior. We’ll call your mother first thing in the morning, and then John and Ron will drive you home. Now go to bed,” said Sir Bentley.

  Chris nodded and stood up. He turned to say something, but Ms. Lamb interrupted him.

  “Get out of here!”

  Chris saw the anger in both his teachers’ faces and decided that there was nothing more to be said. He turned and walked out the door.

  • • •

  The others were waiting for Chris when he walked into the Map Room. Chris could feel the tension in the air, and even a small smile from Daisy didn’t make him feel any better. Finally, Rex spoke up.

  “I just don’t get it—why did you lie to us?”

  “I didn’t lie,” said Chris weakly, feeling like his whole life was unraveling before him, “I just didn’t think you’d believe me.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t have,” said Lexi. “We saw the boy last week, and it wasn’t him. You’ve obviously lost it, but that’s not the point. You should have told us.”

  “Do you all think that?” asked Chris, looking around.

  For a moment, nobody said a word.

  “I believe you,” said Daisy, finally.

  “Of course you do,” said Lexi. “Nobody wants to think her boyfriend has gone nuts.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” said Daisy.

  “But he is nuts,” said Rex.

  “I’m still here, Rex,” said Chris, feeling himself flush with anger, “and I’m not crazy—I know what happened.”

  “You are all making my head hurt,” said Sebastian, all of a sudden. “He is crazy, you are crazy, everybody is crazy. Now—I wish to discover what occurred. Chris?”

  Chris looked up at Sebastian, not sure whether to be grateful or not.

  “What’s the point?” asked Chris. “You won’t believe me anyway.”

  “I want to know,” said Daisy.

  Chris looked around as everybody stared at him. He wondered if he had lost his friends for good—the only true friends he had ever had, and decided that the only way to gain their trust again would be to tell them everything.

  • • •

  “Well. Do you believe me?” asked Chris as he finished telling them about his meeting with Ernest.

  Chris’s heart sank. He knew, from the way everybody was shifting uncomfortably, what was coming before anybody spoke.

  Finally, Rex put his hand on Chris’s shoulder. Chris shrugged it away.

  “Look, mate, we believe that you believe it, if that makes you feel better.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Chris flatly.

  “You’re obviously a bit messed up about killing that boy,” continued Rex. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?”

  Lexi, Sebastian, and Philip nodded.

  “Thing is, we were with you when you saw the boy the other two times. He wasn’t there. It was just another kid. You’re seeing things.”

  “Chris,” said Philip, “you know I don’t like to agree with him—”

  “Thanks, Einstein,” interrupted Rex.

  Philip ignored him.

  “But Rex is right. Think about it—the only person who has seen the boy is—”

  “Me, I know,” said Chris, feeling completely deflated.

  “But the rest of the story’s good,” said Rex, continuing on from Philip, “hilarious, in fact. And, look, you’re obviously not quite right in the head at the moment, so we forgive you about lying to us. Right, everyone?”

  Lexi, Sebastian, and Philip all smiled and nodded. Chris sat looking glum as Philip gave him a friendly slap on the back and stood up.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said.

  “Me too,” said Lexi.

  They all stood up, except Chris.

  “Don’t worry, Chris,” said Daisy, turning to follow the others out of the room, “it’s just a lot for them to believe.”

  “I suppose so,” said Chris. He remembered what John had said to him, and as hard as it was, he knew that Daisy was right—he just wished he could think of some way of proving it to them.

  • • •

  Sir Bentley was on the phone talking when Chris walked into his office the next morning. He motioned for Chris to sit as he finished his conversation and then put the phone down.

  “Christopher, we’ve been trying to call your mother this morning, but there’s been no answer.”

  Chris looked alarmed. “She has to be there—she doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “Maybe she’s asleep, then.”

  Chris shook his head. “She would hear it—the phone is next to her bed, and there’s one in the living room.”

  “Well, then, I’m sure she’s popped out to the shops or something. Anyway, as soon as we get hold of her, we’ll take you home, but until we do, you’ll stay here. I have to go do some work, but somebody will come to get you later.”

  Chris’s mind was racing. “You don’t understand, Sir Bentley—there’s no way my mum wouldn’t answer the phone. She doesn’t leave the house. Something . . .”

  Just then, Chris froze, and suddenly, everything was clear.

  “Yes?” asked Sir Bentley, seeing the expression on Chris’s face.

  “It’s Ernest. Ernest has taken her!” said Chris, looking panicked.

  “Now, now. W
hy would he do that?” said Sir Bentley.

  “He was looking at my school file in Ms. Lamb’s mind when I interrupted him—my mum’s name and address were in it,” said Chris, practically shouting with worry. “This is his way of getting me to come to him.”

  Chris could tell that Sir Bentley thought he was acting crazy, but he didn’t care anymore. He jumped up and reached over to pick up the phone.

  “Christopher, calm down!” said Sir Bentley as Chris frantically dialed his home number.

  Chris waited, and then the phone began to ring. And ring.

  Sir Bentley looked at Chris as he listened, but he made no attempt to stop him. Finally, Chris gave up. He put the phone down.

  “I have to go home.”

  Sir Bentley shook his head. “You can’t go back to an empty house. Wait until we hear from your mother, and we’ll get a car to take you there.”

  “You don’t understand—he’s taken her!” shouted Chris. He felt as if he were about to burst with anger and frustration. “I need to go home.”

  Sir Bentley stared at Chris, who was now pacing up and down the room, frantically running his hands through his hair.

  “Please,” said Chris finally, stopping suddenly, tears of frustration beginning to form, “please let me go home. I need to go home.”

  Sir Bentley sighed. “Fine. I can see that you’re upset. If it will give you peace of mind, I’ll get Ron and John to take you. You can wait until lunchtime with them, and if by then she hasn’t shown up, you have to come back to school. Do you understand?”

  Chris nodded as Sir Bentley stood up. He knew that his mother wouldn’t be there—but perhaps Ernest would have left him some way of getting in contact—he was, after all, the person that Ernest wanted to see.

  “Please, hurry up,” he said as Sir Bentley led him down toward Ron and John’s quarters.

  • • •

  Chris rode the elevator in silence, squeezed tightly in between Ron and John and Sir Bentley, who was explaining to the two guards about what he wanted them to do. John, to his credit, said nothing. He just put his hand on Chris’s shaking shoulder.

  “It’s all right, son,” said John.

  “We’ll go get the car,” said Ron as he walked quickly over to the front door, John by his side.

  “We’ll wait out front for you,” said Sir Bentley, following behind with Chris. They were just about to step out the front door when Sir Bentley put his hand on Chris’s shoulder. “While we’re waiting, why don’t you use your Ability to check whether she’s there yet.”

  Chris looked up at Sir Bentley, shocked that he hadn’t thought of this himself; in his panic, he had completely forgotten that once outside of the lead-lined facility, he could use his Ability to remote-access other locations. He stepped outside and, head bowed, eyes closed, he let his mind soar upward and then westward, over a map of London that he had long ago memorized, until, seeing his own house, he let his focus drop as quickly as he could until he was standing on the street outside. Chris looked up and focused on every room in turn—the image of each flicking quickly from one room to the next as he checked for his mother. The final place he looked in was the living room. Chris scanned the room, shocked at the state his mother had allowed it to get in—half-eaten plates of food, mugs of half-drunk tea everywhere, and photo albums of his father lying open next to the armchair that his mother fell asleep in most nights. Most worrying, however, was that the television was on.

  “She’s not there—I checked every room,” said Chris, opening his eyes.

  “I’m sure she’ll be home any moment,” said Sir Bentley, leading Chris down the steps as John pulled up in the car. Ron jumped out from the passenger side and ran round to open the door.

  “Remember,” said Sir Bentley to Ron, “wait until midday—if she hasn’t shown up by then, bring Christopher back here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ron.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Sir Bentley. He turned to Chris. “Take care. I’m sure she’ll be fine, and we’ll see you in a week. Use the time to get some rest and relax a bit—I think you need it.”

  Chris nodded, wishing they would just get going.

  Sir Bentley thanked Ron and John and turned back up the steps and through the front door.

  “Are we in a hurry?” asked Ron as Chris climbed into the back of the car.

  “Yes—please.”

  “Right, John—you heard him, he’s in a rush.”

  John, whose enormous frame was squashed up against the steering wheel, looked up at Ron. “I’m already in the car.”

  Ron waved him out. “Get out, then. The way you drive, we won’t get there till midnight.”

  “And the way you drive, we won’t get there at all,” answered John, nevertheless getting out of the car.

  Chris put his seat belt on as Ron jumped into the driver’s seat and adjusted the seat until he was so far forward he was practically lying on the steering wheel, his head pressed up against the windshield.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Chris heard the click of John’s seat belt. “Yep,” said John.

  “Then let’s”—Ron turned the key in the ignition and released the handbrake—“go!”

  Ron put one foot on the clutch, pressed all the way down on the accelerator with the other until the engine was screeching, and then, like a greyhound released from his trap, the car exploded into life.

  Chris was thrown backward with the force as Ron began to race through the backstreets of London, tires screeching as he negotiated the tight turns. John, who was clearly well used to Ron’s driving, calmly navigated the way.

  “. . . And left, left, left. Sharp right . . . straight on . . . red light . . . I said red light, Ron. . . . Too late, never mind . . . straight on . . .”

  “Won’t you get a speeding ticket?” shouted Chris as they flew down the restricted bus lane.

  “MI5 vehicle—they’ve got our number plate,” said Ron as he veered round a line of stationary traffic onto the other side of the road, not once hitting the brake.

  Chris sat back and looked out the car window at the blurred scenery. He wished he could enjoy the ride, but his mind was only on getting home and finding out what had happened to his mother.

  Finally the car pulled up outside Chris’s house. Before Ron had even turned off the engine, Chris had unbuckled himself, opened the door, and leaped out. As he ran toward the house, his eyes glazed over and the front lock clicked open.

  “Wait for us,” said Ron as the door swung open and Chris rushed inside.

  The living room was exactly as it had been when he had visited it in his mind—the television guides thrown about the floor, the unopened mail scattered on the sofa, the television on. He was about to turn when Chris felt two large hands grab his shoulders.

  “Don’t touch anything,” said John as Ron stepped in from behind him and started running around to check behind the furniture, “you’ve obviously been burgled.”

  Chris felt himself redden. “Um. No . . . it’s always like this.”

  “Oh.”

  John let go of Chris, who then turned and sprinted down to the kitchen, which was filthy and stacked high with at least a week’s worth of mugs and dishes. Again, there was no sign of his mother.

  “What’s up here?” called John, his feet thumping up the stairs.

  Chris ran to the front of the house and looked up. There, on the landing, was a long ladder leading up into an open hole in the ceiling.

  “The attic,” said Chris, confused—he hadn’t even thought of looking there.

  “Stay here,” said Ron, pushing past Chris and jumping, catlike, onto the ladder. “I’ll check that it’s safe.”

  Chris stood next to John and watched in silence as Ron scrambled silently up and then disappeared into the hole above. For a moment, there was complete silence and then, out of the darkness, Ron’s head appeared.

  “Chris,” he whispered, “I think you’d better come up here.”
>
  Panicking, Chris climbed the ladder and stepped out onto the wooden floor. The attic was lit dimly by a single bare bulb hanging from the center of the vaulted ceiling. Chris looked around, but all he could see were piles of boxes and chests.

  “Behind there,” whispered Ron, pointing to a stack of cardboard boxes.

  Chris stepped forward cautiously, stepping over an old rolled-up rug and round the back of the boxes, and found what Ron was pointing at.

  There, lying on the floor, was his mother, surrounded by a pile of open photo albums.

  “Mum?”

  There was no response.

  Chris knelt down next to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Mum? Wake up.”

  He felt his mother stir and watched as she slowly opened her eyes. She looked around, getting her bearings, and then she turned to Chris.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Chris didn’t know what to say. The truth—I thought you had been kidnapped—suddenly seemed too ridiculous to say out loud.

  “Apologies for disturbing you, Mrs. Lane. We wanted to check that you were home,” said Ron, stepping out from behind the boxes. “We tried calling this morning.”

  “Who is he?” asked Chris’s mother, glaring at Ron.

  “He’s one of the security guards from school,” said Chris. He still felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Nothing was making any sense, and his head was spinning from confusion.

  “Ron Stiller,” said Ron. He stepped forward and leaned over to help Chris’s mum to her feet.

  “Get your hands off me,” she said, flinching away.

  Ron jumped back, startled by her anger. Chris wished that the ground would swallow him up.

  “Come on, Chris,” said Ron gently. “Let’s wait downstairs.”

  Chris looked at his mum, her hair disheveled, not speaking as she put the albums back into a box, and then turned away.

  • • •

  “Put a cup of tea on,” said his mother as she walked into the living room. She glared at Ron and John without greeting them and sat down in her armchair.

  “John Walker,” said John as he walked over and offered his hand.

  Chris’s mother looked up at him and shook his hand coldly. “I’m here. You can go now.”