by Jane Killick
“You got there okay, then?”
“Sort of.” He paused. “Look, Pauline, there’s something I found out.”
“What?”
“I’m not really sure.”
“You’re not really sure what you found out?” she repeated.
“Are you coming back to London at all?”
“I haven’t got a job anymore, have I?”
That’s what Michael thought. It was a silly question. It was just that he had no one else to talk to. He had friends back at university, but they were norms, they wouldn’t understand. The only person he actually knew in London was the Prime Minister and he wasn’t the sort of person you invited over for a coffee and a chat.
“I could come up and see you, I suppose,” she said. “Norm’s got me somewhere to stay in Kent. I should be able to get to London from there.”
“You could stay here,” said Michael. He hadn’t been able to perceive her to sense how she would react to the offer. It was quite possible she would end the phone call and never speak to him again, but it seemed an obvious solution. To him, anyway.
“In your one-bedroom flat?” she said, as if the idea was preposterous.
It probably was preposterous. He was being an idiot. “You don’t have to,” he said, backtracking to save further embarrassment. “It was just idea.”
“It’s a good idea,” said Pauline. “It’s just that I promised Katya I would stay with her.”
“Then bring Katya,” said Michael.
“In your one-bedroom flat?” she said again.
“It’s all I have, Pauline. I miss you.”
Michael felt himself go red and was pleased she wasn’t there to see it.
“Well, in that case, then yeah. I’ll check with Norm the Norm, but he’s been run so ragged trying to find places willing to take perceivers that I’m sure he’ll just be glad he’s got two less people to find a home for.”
“Okay, then. I’ll see you … tomorrow?”
“Probably,” said Pauline. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.”
“Bye, then.”
“Bye.”
They hung up together. Michael let the phone slip from his fingers as he sat back on the sofa.
Pankhurst’s car stopped in the middle of the long driveway that led to the car factory in Dagenham. Ahead lay the glass-fronted reception area that disguised the automotive plant behind. Despite the rather grey day, it seemed to gleam as if a team of window cleaners had been crawling across its surface to spruce it up for the Prime Minister’s visit. But, then, they probably had.
Michael was travelling in the car behind, which also slowed down to a stop on the driveway. Michael got out and stood waiting as still and patient as a statue. To an outsider, he must have looked like any other member of the Prime Minister’s entourage standing there in a suit.
A little way ahead, a temporary barrier of steel railings had been erected and, behind that, stood a throng of journalists. Their microphones and camera lenses swung round towards the Prime Minister’s car as Pankhurst emerged from the back. He had chosen, Michael noticed, a jazzy tie with bright red, purple and green circles to mark his individuality against the more conformist grey suit and pastel blue shirt that he wore.
Pankhurst headed straight for the journalists. Michael followed at a discreet distance and threw a perception barrier around Pankhurst’s mind.
One of the journalists shouted out: “What’s your reaction to the death of the woman who got burned at the anti-perceivers protest?”
Michael’s perception barrier faltered for a moment as the news hit him. The memory of the bedsheet falling on the woman and catching fire from the petrol bomb was suddenly clear. It brought with it renewed horror as he remembered her arms fighting to get free from under the burning shroud.
Dead?
Earlier reports said she had been badly injured, but they hadn’t suggested her condition was critical. The news was going to bounce back to harm the perceivers’ cause, he knew it. No one would remember that the woman who burned to death had been the one throwing the petrol bomb.
Pankhurst’s reaction to the question was numb and rehearsed. With all his advisors around him, someone must have passed the information to him in the car and he was ready with his answer. “First let me say that my thoughts are with Hilary Bestwood’s friends and family at this tragic time …”
Michael actually saw some of the journalists roll their eyes as Pankhurst trotted out the same insincere mantra politicians always trotted out after tragic events.
“… But it will not deter me in my efforts to find a solution to this very concerning tension that has risen up between perceivers and other members of the public.”
“What are you actually doing about it, Prime Minister?” asked another journalist.
“We have a number of options on the table,” said Pankhurst. “We know that the choices before us are hard, but I can assure you that we shall make the right choices for the good of the country.”
“What options, Prime Minister?”
He smiled, blatantly ignoring the question. “Thank you for coming. I do hope you’ll be covering my visit to the highly successful Fusheema car factory.”
He turned, abruptly ending the impromptu press conference and went into the building.
The rest of the visit was highly organised – and strictly timed. Shake a few people’s hands here, look at some machinery there, go to another room and talk to some workers in especially cleaned overalls near where he had started.
Throughout it all, Michael protected the Prime Minister’s mind. But it turned out to be unnecessary. There was no crazed Russian on perceiver serum to disrupt proceedings.
There was only a management trainee on an apprenticeship who, as soon as Michael walked into the same room as him, he realised was obviously a perceiver. The trainee looked about eighteen years old in a new suit which he wore like a shop mannequin as he desperately tried not to get it creased or dirty. The trainee immediately perceived what Michael was, and his eyes went wide and his face went pale.
He instinctively raised his barriers when he felt Michael touch his mind and Michael had to push through to ensure the trainee heard his thoughts.
Don’t worry, thought Michael. Shake the Prime Minister’s hand, don’t try to perceive him, and I will say nothing.
The trainee shook Pankhurst’s hand with a weak and trembling grip. The teenager didn’t even try to sense the Prime Minister’s emotions. He was clearly no spy, just a young man who had got his first job in a car factory and also happened to be able to read minds.
After that, dignitaries, invited guests and the press gathered in the factory assembly hall among the half-finished vehicles, engine parts and robotic machinery. A lectern had been set up for the Prime Minister and he addressed his audience who remained much quieter and more respectful than the rabble he addressed every week in the House of Commons.
Pankhurst said how proud he was to see the tradition of manufacturing return to Britain. He praised the wonderful job that the managers were doing in their commitment to an apprentice scheme which encouraged young people to … blah, blah, blah.
Michael found himself standing next to Barrington as he kept a careful eye on the crowd.
“I need to speak to the Prime Minister,” Michael whispered.
“Not available,” said Barrington out of the corner of his mouth.
“What’s he doing after this?”
“Back to Downing Street. Cabinet meeting. You’re not needed.”
“Can I ride with him in the car?”
“No,” said Barrington. “You work for the Prime Minister. Not the other way round.”
Michael could perceive there was no use arguing with the man. So he continued to stand and perceive the crowd. The journalists among them, who were used to listening to political rhetoric, appeared to be as bored by it as he was.
Afterwards, Michael hoped to catch Pankhurst’s eye, but he had mor
e hand shaking to do and Michael continued to blend into the background.
The Prime Minister, however, had one human weakness that Michael was able to exploit. Like every other human being on the planet, he needed to go to the toilet at some point during the day. Because of Michael’s ability to perceive him, he knew when that point was and made an effort to get there first.
The gentlemen’s toilet, like the front of the building, looked like it had been given extra special attention by a team of cleaners. The white tiled floor and the painted white walls almost sparkled in the bright lights overhead. There were three cubicles, three sinks and three urinals, one of which was occupied by a man whose whole hair quota seemed to have been used up on his beard rather than on his head. Michael approached the urinal next to him and unzipped his fly.
Pankhurst entered the toilets, went straight into one of the cubicles and closed the door.
Barrington followed at a more leisurely pace. He checked the other two cubicles were empty and stood on guard next to the one Pankhurst had locked himself into.
The bearded man, looking somewhat intimidated, shook himself dry and tucked himself away in his trousers. He glanced once behind at Barrington, then left without washing his hands. Which Michael thought was rather disgusting.
Michael tried to pee, but his body didn’t want to.
“Come on, Michael,” said Barrington. “Finish up and leave.”
“I just need to …”
At that moment he heard the sound of falling urine landing into the water of a toilet bowl. The sound was enough to break his psychological barrier and he squeezed a little bit from his bladder.
The Prime Minister, it seemed, was too shy to reveal an intimate part of his body at a public urinal.
Pankhurst emerged soon after and Michael was relieved to see he believed in personal hygiene as he went to the sink to wash his hands. Michael finished what he was doing and joined him.
“What options?” said Michael.
Barrington stepped forward and touched Michael on the shoulder. “Come on, now. You’ve finished.”
“The Prime Minister told the journalists he was considering options to deal with the perceiver crisis,” said Michael. “I want to know what they are.”
Barrington pulled at Michael’s shoulder. Not politely this time, but forcefully enough to pull him back from the sink and for his wet hands to drip onto his shoes.
“No, it’s all right,” said Pankhurst, waving Barrington away. “We have a few minutes before we have to leave, don’t we?”
Barrington glanced at his watch, but Michael perceived he didn’t actually read what it said. “Not really, sir.”
Pankhurst shook the water from his hands and went over to one of the hand driers next to the sinks. It was one of those powerful ones mounted at waist height. He plunged his hands in and the resulting blast of air meant he had to raise his voice to be heard. “There are always options.”
“I’m part of the working group on perceivers,” said Michael. “If there are options, then we should be considering them at our next meeting.”
“Ah,” said Pankhurst, with regret. He pulled his hands from the drier and the roar of the air abruptly ceased. “Things are moving so fast, I fear I will need to act before the working group finalises its report.”
“Then you are looking at options?” said Michael. He perceived Pankhurst was hiding something from him, so he looked further into his thoughts. What he saw shocked him: Pankhurst was thinking of the ostentatious bow woman who had represented the cure programme at the first meeting of the working group.
“I won’t lie to you, Michael,” said Pankhurst. “It would be foolish to lie to someone of your ability anyway. The truth is that I’m under pressure to extend the cure programme to all perceivers.”
“You can’t!” said Michael. “That would undermine perceivers’ rights – the rights that you personally enshrined in law. Anyway, it would be impossible.”
“A report’s landed on my desk which lays out how it might be done.” He thought of the ostentatious bow woman again.
“You’re not seriously considering it?” said Michael.
But he perceived that Pankhurst was.
“Nothing has been decided yet, Michael. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Cabinet meeting to attend.”
Barrington stepped aside as Pankhurst headed for the door and formed a deliberate barrier to stop Michael from following.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Michael called after Pankhurst. “Sian Jones thinks there’s a wider conspiracy going on. Is that true?”
But Pankhurst had gone and if he knew anything about what the journalist had hinted back outside the army base, then the glimpse of his thoughts as he walked out revealed nothing of it.
Michael tried to walk around Barrington, but Barrington side-stepped and continued to block him. “You do not speak to the Prime Minister without permission again, do you understand?”
“I was just asking—”
“I tolerate your presence because the Prime Minister requested it and because your actions at the G8 summit were commendable. But you’re not his friend and you certainly do not ambush him in the toilets. One more stunt like that and I will not tolerate your presence any further, is that clear?”
Michael didn’t say anything.
“Is that clear?” Barrington repeated.
“It’s clear,” said Michael.
“Good,” said Barrington. “You ride in the car behind, as you did on the way in. Once we arrive back at Downing Street, you make yourself scarce. Everyone who will be there you have vetted before, so your presence is not required.”
Barrington turned on his heel and walked out.
Seventeen
Michael didn’t know why he watched the television, it only made him angry.
Claudia Angelheart had come out of the woodwork and proudly announced that she had resurrected Action Against Mind Invasion. The same organisation who had mounted a counter-demonstration to perceivers on that day when they clashed and five people died.
Her stupid face with too much make-up was all over the news, demanding action. “We let them live among us once before and look at what happened,” she told whatever journalist would listen. “It’s time to revoke Perceivers’ Law and take back control of our own minds. The only way to do that is to cure them all.”
The news programmes also ran that clip of Pankhurst repeatedly. The one where he proclaimed: “We have a number of options on the table. We know that the choices before us are hard, but I can assure you that we shall make the right choices for the good of the country.”
Michael nearly took his shoe off and threw it at the television screen. If the TV hadn’t come with the furnished apartment, then he might have done. Instead, he lifted the remote control with his thoughts, brought it over to his hand and changed the channel to watch a comedy panel show.
At least someone had something to laugh about.
Pauline let herself in with the key that Michael had given her. She looked cold in the khaki trousers, shirt and jumper that she was wearing. When she had taken some clothes from the pile of uniforms that was offered to the perceivers at Tidworth barracks, she must have neglected to find a coat.
It was gone ten o’clock and he was surprised to see her. He had texted her through the day and, apart from a few messages earlier on saying she was still planning to come, she had said nothing.
He perceived a tiredness about her that was more than lack of sleep. “Hello,” he said. “I’d almost given up on seeing you today.”
“I was waiting for Katya,” said Pauline.
Michael opened his perception a little further and confirmed that he and Pauline were the only ones there. “Where is she?”
“Cooper wouldn’t let her come. He issued orders that she be questioned. I thought they would question her and let her go, but it got late and they hadn’t even turned up yet.”
“Do you think they have sus
picions about Katya?”
“No more than we do,” said Pauline. “They just want to be sure, I guess. I told Katya I would stay with her, but she said it was fine and I should come to see you in London. I think she knew I didn’t really want to stay there. Perhaps that baby inside of her was allowing her to perceive me a little.”
Michael got up off the sofa. He took the kitbag from her shoulder and felt how light it was. “Is there anything in here?” he said.
“Just the nightclothes I was wearing when the attack happened.”
He put it down by the door. He perceived her more deeply now that they were close. There was a melancholy wrapped up in her tiredness. “Why don’t you take a seat. Do you want something to eat or drink? There’s pesto and pasta. Or I can make coffee?”
“Coffee sounds great,” said Pauline. “I shouldn’t because I should sleep, but … coffee sounds great.”
She availed herself of the bathroom while Michael made coffee in the kitchenette.
When he came back into the living area with two mugs, Pauline had changed into her nightclothes and was sitting on the sofa.
She saw him looking at her. “It feels so good to take the uniform off,” she said. “I’ve got to get some more clothes to wear.”
“You can go shopping tomorrow,” said Michael.
“I left all my money and cards and stuff at Galen House.”
“I can lend you some money.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
She took one of the mugs of coffee from him and sniffed at the deep bitterness rising in the steam. “Thanks,” she said. “For the coffee and the other thing.”
Michael sat beside her. “We can’t have you walking around London naked, can we? Even if would be fun.”
She kicked him playfully in the shin.
He laughed.
She laughed too, but the breaking of her stoic emotions allowed her darker feelings to surface. Like a bird flying up in the sky only to be shot down with a bullet and come plunging back to earth.
Her face contorted as she lost control and tears came.
She turned away from Michael. But even if he hadn’t seen that she was upset, he could feel it.