Mind Power

by Jane Killick

  A nurse carrying a pile of sterile bandages had to take a wide path to get round them. Pauline gripped Michael’s sleeve even tighter and dragged him to the side, out of the way.

  “Michael?” she asked again. “Are you going to tell me or do I have to pull the information from you?”

  It was an empty threat because she knew he was strong enough to block her.

  But he decided to tell her anyway. The only reason he hadn’t mentioned it before was that it never seemed to be the right time.

  He took a deep breath. It was harder to say the words than he had imagined. “Do you remember when I first went to Russia? When Doctor Lucas kidnapped my dad and I went to find him?”

  “Yes,” said Pauline.

  “Doctor Lucas had me drugged and took me away for … something. I never knew what. I was unconscious the whole time. There was speculation that he might have taken something from me. He was researching perceivers so it made sense that he would want to take genetic samples to analyse. One theory is that he didn’t just take a blood sample. There’s speculation he might have also taken some of my sperm.”

  Michael let the words hang between them.

  “You think Katya is carrying your baby?” she said.

  “I don’t know. Possibly.”

  “That was three years ago, Michael.”

  “Sperm can be frozen – three years, thirty years, it doesn’t matter. If the Russians wanted perceiver babies to be born, the easiest way would be to fertilise a human egg with sperm from a perceiver donor.”

  Pauline blocked off her feelings so he couldn’t read them. “What’s all that got to do with Cooper?”

  “I want him to run a paternity test,” said Michael. “I need to be sure.”

  He nudged Pauline as he saw that Cooper had finished his phone call and was heading their way. “You’re here,” he said. “Katya’s been asking for you.”

  Cooper led them to a private room where Katya lay propped up on a hospital bed looking tired, sweaty and pleased to see them. By her side was a midwife in blue tabard uniform.

  The midwife looked up as they came in. “I’m sorry, three’s too many of you to be in here,” she said.

  “We just wanted to see that Katya was okay,” said Pauline.

  “I’m okay,” said Katya, lifting herself up on her elbows so she could see them better. “I think my baby wants to come soon.”

  The midwife turned to Michael. “Are you the father?”

  He choked on his own breath. “What? No.”

  “We’re friends,” said Pauline.

  “Then you need to leave, this is not a party,” said the midwife.

  “No, let them stay,” said Katya. “Except Agent Cooper. He can go.”

  Katya’s face suddenly contorted. She gripped hold of the handles on the side of the bed and let out a scream so loud that it hurt Michael’s ears.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said the midwife. “It’s just a contraction.” She went round to the bottom of the bed and looked between Katya’s legs. “That’s good, Katya. Not long now.”

  “I’ll just be outside,” said Cooper and left the room.

  Katya’s scream subsided and the midwife looked up at Michael and Pauline. “If you two want to make yourselves useful, you can hold her hand.”

  Michael went round one side of the bed and Pauline went round the other. Katya clasped both of their hands tightly.

  Michael allowed himself a moment to perceive Katya, but then another contraction came – and, with it, the pain – and he quickly withdrew his perception.

  After that, the only pain he felt was his own as Katya’s nails dug into his hand tighter and tighter with each new contraction, while the midwife made encouraging sounds at the bottom of the bed.

  Katya’s screams turned to shouted Russian words, which Michael could only imagine were swear words, as the midwife interspersed them with English. “Baby’s nearly here, Katya. You’re doing well. Just one last push. Come on, that’s it. Give me all you’ve got.”

  Her face red with determination, Katya squeezed Michael and Pauline’s hands as she let out one last, long, primal grunt.

  The baby’s head appeared from between her legs and the rest of him plopped out onto the bed. A wet, wriggling, tiny human being. So alive and so real, it was difficult to believe he had been inside another person.

  The baby gurgled at suddenly being thrust into the world and started to cry. Which turned into a piercing scream as the reality of leaving the safety of Katya’s womb touched his skin.

  The midwife scooped him up and wiped the residue of the foetal sack from his face. “Well done, Katya! It’s a boy!”

  She placed the baby, still attached to its umbilical cord, onto Katya’s chest and the new mother cuddled him close. Her eyes brightened as she looked at him with a smile that was full of love.

  Michael opened his perception and felt a rush of euphoria. It was like no experience he had ever had before. Happiness was such an inadequate word. Katya was floating on her emotions. Her excitement, contentment and strong instinct to protect her child eclipsed her exhaustion and worries like a drug.

  “Would you like to cut the umbilical cord?” asked the midwife.

  Michael saw that she had sectioned off a small piece of the blue-tinged cord from where it snaked out from the baby’s belly button. She offered him the scissors.

  Michael was about to refuse, but he realised there was no one else and so he took the scissors. The cord was surprisingly tough, but he managed to cut through it and release the physical link between the mother and child. Katya’s baby was officially his own, independent person.

  The midwife hustled them out after that so the little boy could be cleaned up properly and weighed and whatever else it was that needed to be done after he was born.

  As they went out into the corridor, they passed Agent Cooper and Michael heard him ask the midwife for a sample of the umbilical cord to send off to the lab.

  There were two chairs outside Katya’s room and, as Michael sat down, he realised how exhausted he was. Not as exhausted as someone who had just given birth, but mentally drained.

  “What now?” said Pauline.

  “Figure out a way to get back to my mother’s house, I suppose,” said Michael.

  “I meant, what now?” said Pauline. Even though the words were the same, the meaning she conveyed was more long term.

  Michael thought about the question for a long time.

  He didn’t expect the answer to come from his perception. But, as he sat there outside of Katya’s hospital room, he perceived a familiar presence.

  Michael looked up the corridor and confirmed what he already knew. Inspector Patterson was there and he was coming for him.

  Michael got up from his chair. Pauline got up, too, and stood behind him.

  Patterson stopped. He was no more than ten paces away. It was not only his suit that looked crumpled and uncared for, it was his whole body. Michael perceived him and felt his regret.

  “I’m sorry about this, Michael,” said Patterson.

  “Sorry for what?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “I’ve come to take you in.”

  “For what?” said Pauline. “He’s committed no crime.”

  “Emergency legislation,” said Patterson. “They could have sent someone else, but I thought it would be better coming from me.”

  “What will happen?” asked Michael.

  “I don’t actually know. It’s not up to me.”

  Michael was suddenly very afraid. Once he was in police custody, that was it. Game over. He looked around the hospital corridor for something to protect himself. Some sort of weapon.

  His mind gripped onto the chair that he had been sitting on. He wrapped his thoughts around it and willed it into the air. He projected it, with all his fear and anger, at Patterson. Patterson sidestepped as the chair whizzed past him and crashed to the floor behind. />
  Gasps rose from the nurses at the nurses’ station.

  “Don’t make it difficult, Michael.”

  Patterson took a step forward. Michael’s thoughts seized the second chair and hurled it at him. Patterson ducked and it sailed overhead.

  Michael looked around. There was a clipboard on the nurses’ station. His mind picked it up and sent it spinning at the police officer. It hit him in the back. Patterson jolted, but he kept walking.

  Michael’s mind lifted a pen, a box of tissues, a thank you card, another patient’s chart on a clipboard, an empty sample tray all into the air. They struck Patterson’s body and bounced off in quick succession like a handful of pebbles thrown at a tank.

  “Don’t do this, Inspector Patterson,” pleaded Michael. “Tony, please.”

  He perceived the policeman didn’t want to, but he did it anyway. Patterson knew that if he didn’t take Michael in, someone else would.

  Patterson stood in front of him. “Turn around.”

  As Michael turned, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fire extinguisher attached to the wall in the corner where the corridor ended. He explored it with his thoughts and held it with his mind. He could pull it from the wall and send it sailing through the air to strike Patterson on the head.

  He could run.

  But run where?

  He perceived from Patterson that there were other police officers in the hospital. Even if Michael had some place to run to, he probably wouldn’t make it.

  So he let Patterson secure the handcuffs around his wrists and lead him away.

  There were probably only days left before he was subjected to the cure.

  Twenty-Eight

  The turn of a key in Michael’s cell door clicked the bolt free and it opened.

  Michael had perceived who it was outside, but it was still surprising to see Barrington walk into the stark, grey environment of the police cell.

  The security chief looked somehow smaller in the casual jeans and polo shirt he wore, instead of the suit Michael was used to seeing him in. He brought with him the smell of freedom, with his freshly showered mix of deodorant and moisturiser. It was not enough to blot out the stale air of the cell, but it made Michael think of the outside.

  He swung his legs around off the narrow bed with its squeaky plastic-covered mattress and tossed the grey police-issue blanket aside.

  The custody sergeant standing next to Barrington informed him that he would be waiting in the corridor in case he was needed. He left, pulling the door closed behind him but not locking it.

  “Your policeman friend is very persuasive,” said Barrington.

  “If he was that persuasive, he would have let me go,” said Michael.

  Barrington chuckled. “Quite so.”

  “Did he tell you his theory about the Sian Jones murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Professional hit. Interesting.”

  Michael perceived Barrington didn’t entirely believe Patterson’s theory. Which was bad. Because, out of all the crazy things that Michael wanted to tell him, that bit was the most believable.

  “Did he tell you what’s going on at Clairone Labs?”

  “He did,” said Barrington.

  “And?”

  “Also interesting. It reminds me of how the West treated Nazi scientists after the war. The Second World War, that is, not all the other terrible things that have happened since. Many of them were taken to America, not only to deprive post-war Germany of some of its more brilliant minds, but also to advance America’s technical ability. The same man who developed rockets that bombed Britain in the forties went on to be a major player in the race to put man on the moon. Which America won, of course.”

  “What is the connection with Peter Wauluds?” asked Michael. “When I asked if you could investigate him, you gave me the address to Clairone Labs. I know he’s listed as one of their advisors, but I can’t find out any more. Certainly not while I’m stuck in here.”

  “Okay,” said Barrington. He walked the two short steps to the bed, which was little more than a padded bench attached to the wall, and sat himself down next to Michael. “This is what I’ve been able to find out about Wauluds. Listed as part of his parliamentary financial interests, alongside Clairone, are a couple of defence companies which have major contracts supplying other parts of the world with weapons. All above board, of course. Wauluds was smart. Accepting a job as justice minister presented no conflict of interest as far as parliamentary standards go, but it did put him on the map as far as political ambitions.”

  “Except Pankhurst got him to resign,” said Michael.

  “As a minister, yes. But not as an MP. The word around Westminster is, it’s a temporary blip in his career. Wauluds is tipped for big things, maybe even the next prime minister if he plays his cards right. Everyone knows Pankhurst is on his way out. Either Pankhurst will lose the next election or his own party will vote him out and try to get someone more popular in as a last-ditch attempt to hold onto power.”

  “You seem very certain.”

  “I’ve been working around politicians for a long time,” said Barrington. “I can see which way the wind is blowing. Why do you think Pankhurst is having this sudden panic about perceivers? The general election is just a year away, either he swings the public mood in his favour before then, or he works damned hard to repair his legacy ahead of being ousted from office.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with Wauluds and Clairone.”

  “Think of yourself as an ambitious politician,” said Barrington. “You want to ingratiate yourself with the right people. The right people being the people who are on the way up, like Wauluds, not the people on the way down like Pankhurst. Maybe you got yourself noticed as an MP and got promoted to a ministerial position in the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills. The same department that grants export licences to companies who want to sell weapons to foreign powers. Wauluds has nothing to do with that committee, of course, it wouldn’t be allowed because of his links with defence companies. But, what he does have, is influence. A word in the right ear, asking someone to approve an export licence on the understanding that, maybe down the line when he is prime minister, that favour could be reciprocated.”

  It was all coming together in Michael’s mind. Like pieces of a jigsaw scattered around the room and gradually being uncovered in the dark corners where people had hidden them. “You think Wauluds wants to sell the perceiver serum to other countries?”

  “Developing an injection which turns ordinary intelligence agents into perceiver spies would be useful to Britain, but imagine how valuable it would be as a commodity. Clairone Labs licences the patent to one or more of the defence companies which Wauluds has an interest in, they sell it to foreign powers and make a ton of money, allowing Wauluds to pocket the profits.”

  “Can you prove any of this?”

  “At the moment, it’s just a theory,” said Barrington.

  “A theory which, if it got out, would destroy Wauluds,” said Michael. “A theory that he might think would be worth killing someone to keep it quiet.”

  “The only thing I have on record about Wauluds is that he is the one who approved Brian Ransom’s day release from prison while he was still justice minister. That’s a fact that he can’t hide because he had to put his name to the paperwork. Wauluds, of course, used to work for Ransom back when the perceiver vitamin pills were developed. So he knows some of the science and some of its potential.”

  Michael stood up. His head was firing with ideas. “We’ve got to tell someone.” But as he looked around the four grey walls of his cell, he knew that he couldn’t do it while locked up in there. “You’ve got to get me out.”

  “I don’t have that power,” said Barrington.

  “You can’t let me stay in here, not with something like this. If they cure me, there’s no telling for certain what’s going to happen. I’ve been cured before and it destroyed my
memories. Being cured a second time …” Michael shivered at the thought.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” said Barrington.

  “Get me in a room with Pankhurst and Wauluds. Pankhurst is still prime minister, he still has power until his party or the electorate chuck him out. We need to put all this to Wauluds and I need to perceive him and we have to tell Pankhurst. We can’t let the world turn perception into a weapon for people to use on each other.”

  Barrington nodded. “I’ll try,” he said. “I don’t make promises, but I’ll try.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Michael pushed down the leg of his jeans and tried to cover up the electronic tag which was strapped to his ankle. Even with the material over the top, the bulge was still visible. It made him feel like a criminal. Perhaps, in the mind of the country, he was.

  The terms of his release meant he was allowed out in the day, as long as he obeyed the overnight curfew and was tucked up safely at his mother’s house by ten o’clock. Under Mary Ransom’s stairs, the Ministry of Justice had installed a box which would sound an alarm if it didn’t detect the presence of Michael’s electronic tag during curfew hours.

  It was already eight o’clock and Michael was still at Barrington’s flat in Harrow in north London. Michael was supposed to wait patiently there until the security chief returned home. The waiting bit he had just about figured out, the patiently aspect was something he was getting worse at the more the minutes ticked by.

  Like a lot of homes in London, ‘cosy’ would have been the polite term for Barrington’s living room. His wife and teenage son had been shipped off to the in-laws for the night, but they had left evidence of their existence behind. It appeared that Mrs Barrington was into home toning regimes, judging by the women’s gym kit folded up on a selection of hand weights in the corner. The son appeared to be studying the history of the First World War, according to the battered school text book by the side of the armchair. The rest of the stuff could belong to anyone in the household, with a PlayStation stuffed under the TV, shelves stuffed with paperback books – mostly on Indian cooking – and a few ornaments of dragons which might have been brightly coloured if it weren’t for the layer of dust on them.