Mind Control: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 2) Page 2

  “I’ll show you to your quarters,” said Norm. “You’ll meet these reprobates properly tomorrow.”

  They turned towards the accommodation block, Norm’s shoes still squeaking, while Pauline’s heels were dampened by the carpet. Her anxiety lessened as she moved away from the group of grey-clad teenagers who stared at her. Michael blocked out her mind: there was nothing more to be gained by perceiving her any further.

  Chatter rose into the room again.

  Alex turned to Michael. “Why do they dump perceivers into this place without any preparation?” he said.

  “Because they are norms,” said Michael. “And norms hate perceivers.”

  ~

  LIGHTS OUT.

  In theory, Michael had control of the lights in his own room and no one would say anything if he decided to turn them on again, but the army discipline of a regular bedtime had been instilled in him across a year of training and he couldn’t shake it off. So when the lights extinguished themselves, he let them be.

  Michael’s room became a mosaic of shadows. Shapes sketched out in shades of black indicated the wardrobe in the corner, the chest of drawers on the far wall, his desk with a chair tucked under and his clothes piled across the back of it. The only concession to this room being his home was a two-seater sofa jammed next to the door where he would sometimes sit and read or watch the television. Only the window displayed a hint of colour from the faint glow of a lamppost on the road outside which illuminated the dark blue of the curtains.

  There was a bed too, of course, but Michael couldn’t see it very well because he was lying under the bedclothes.

  Not as if he could sleep. Jerome Tyler’s thoughts continued to persist inside of him.

  Michael had perceived a lot of minds in the past and none of them had been like Tyler’s. People were complicated, they thought a variety of things. If they were walking down the road, they might be thinking about all the things they had to buy at the shop, but they would also be thinking about the best place to cross the road, the disgusting state of all the litter in the street and what they planned to do at the weekend. Sometimes they would think these things one after the other, sometimes they would be thinking them all at once. They would be feeling cold from the wind, an ache in their foot from an old football injury and slightly out of breath from walking faster than usual. But not Tyler. There was one singular thought in his head: he had to go.

  Even allowing for the fact that Tyler had been on his way to commit some terrorist atrocity, it didn’t make sense. Surely a person like that – if they were concentrating on anything at all – they would be concentrating on the moment they were to detonate the bomb, not getting on a number 10 bus.

  As the remembered perceptions turned over in his head, the noise of someone else crept into his consciousness. She – because the perception was of a woman – was lonely and scared.

  He knew the emotions were from Pauline’s mind. Not that he could recognise her yet – it often takes a few close perceptions to recognise the mind of an individual – but it could only be her. It was likely Norm the Norm had probably given her the room next to Michael’s, which had been empty for a long time, while all the rest of the perceivers had learnt to screen their thoughts.

  Michael pushed her away. He pushed Tyler away. He concentrated on his breathing and tried to relax. Sleep would come eventually.

  But the more he relaxed, the more Pauline was in his head. Her anxiety at being brought to Galen House made her thoughts louder than a normal, relaxed mind. There were images of a man and a woman – her parents? – and a younger girl who looked a bit like her, possibly a sister. He perceived a sudden stab of fear as an image of a woman in a white coat flashed through Pauline’s mind and the images of her family faded away.

  She was broadcasting so loudly, Michael had to make an effort to block her out. Not that it was a problem, he could block signals far stronger than hers, but every time he relaxed and tried to sleep, her thoughts came back. He was often glad that his perception was stronger than anyone else in the group, but there were other times when it was a burden. This was one of those times.

  Michael sat up in bed. Sleeping was useless. And Pauline’s broadcast was giving him a headache.

  He got up and grappled for his trousers in the semi-dark. He put them on, threw a shirt over his naked chest and padded his bare feet out into the corridor.

  ~

  NIGHT LIGHTS CLUNG to the ceiling down the length of the corridor, dimly illuminating the space below each one with faint circles. Michael padded to the next room along. Standing outside the door, he confirmed Pauline’s thoughts were coming from inside it.

  Michael stopped at the door. He knocked, softly and politely.

  There was no reply. Images still poured from the mind inside: of people she loved, of the long lonely train ride to the base, of the perceivers laying down their cutlery to stare at her. She was on the edge of sleep, in that dreamy state where semi-conscious thoughts pass in and out.

  He knocked louder.

  She must have heard that because the images faded. “Who is it?” came a sleepy voice.

  “My name’s Michael.”

  He perceived uncertainty and distrust from inside the room.

  He realised she had no clue who he was. “I’m one of the other perceivers,” he said.

  “I’m trying to sleep,” said her words. Is the door locked? Did I lock the door? said her thoughts.

  “So am I,” said Michael, “but you’re bleeding everywhere.”

  Panic from behind the door. “What?”

  He realised he had used the wrong words. “You’re in a building full of perceivers, you need to block your mind.”

  “Wait a minute,” she called. There were scrambling noises from inside.

  The door opened just enough for Pauline’s face to peer out. She looked paler without her make-up and was dressed in a white bathrobe which appeared hastily thrown on. Her black hair lay unbrushed and untidy on her shoulders, looking more straggly because the strands were illuminated from behind by a lamp on the bedside table behind her.

  Her anxiety swelled. “You can perceive me?” she said.

  “Someone needs to show you how to block,” said Michael. “Can I come in?”

  She paused, keeping the door open just enough for her to look out and not enough for him to step through. She was suspicious of his motives, he could perceive it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Michael. “Perceive me if you like.” He allowed his arms to fall to his sides and turned his palms outwards to show he was harmless. At the same time, he let his blocks fall.

  She perceived him. He could feel her inside his mind. She took a good, long look.

  “Okay,” she said. She stood aside and let Michael in.

  Her room was still regulation army issue. The wardrobe, the desk, the chair, the bed, the dark blue curtains were all the same as his. He was slightly jealous of the bedside table and lamp, which he made a mental note that he would have to ask for. She didn’t have a sofa, like in his room, and in the space where it might have been were two unpacked suitcases. The only things of hers out on display were her clothes draped over the chair by the desk and a phone laid face down on the table by her bed.

  Michael came in and closed the door behind him. Pauline picked up a pillow and placed it like a cushion against the headboard. She sat up against it and folded her legs up underneath her. Michael took this as a cue for him to sit at the other end of the bed. She was still wary of him, however, and he kept a respectable distance between them.

  “You’ve not been with perceivers before, have you?” said Michael.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” said Pauline.

  “It’s not like being around norms. You can open your mind with norms and they won’t know. But with perceivers, it’s different. We have to maintain blocks and filters otherwise we live in each other’s heads all the time.”

  “Even in here?” She l
ooked around the room with its enclosing four walls.

  “Being able to see someone makes perception easier, but strong emotions and thoughts can leak through walls,” he said.

  Especially the thoughts and emotions of someone who had been taken from their family to live in a strange place with a group of people she didn’t know. All the perceivers in the building understood that, because they had all gone through it.

  “You said there are filters and blocks …?” said Pauline. “I don’t understand.”

  She was panicking again, afraid she had made some terrible mistake. Her emotions were putting Michael on edge. He made a conscious effort to block her out. “It’s a bit like going into a place where there are a lot of people,” he said. “Like a school playground or a shopping centre. Do you know what I mean?”

  “It’s loud,” said Pauline. “I mean, it’s loud in my head. So many minds …”

  Michael nodded, knowing that feeling. “So what do you do?”

  “Make them shut up,” said Pauline.

  “That’s a block,” said Michael. “We do it all the time. We would go crazy if we didn’t. If we don’t want to silence them all, just stop the unwanted noise, we call that a filter.”

  “What’s that got to do with you perceiving me?”

  “It’s the same method,” said Michael. “Instead of blocking things coming in, you block things going out.”

  She looked at him as she processed this idea. “I don’t get it.”

  “Let me show you,” said Michael.

  She shrugged. “Okay.”

  Michael shuffled up a little closer to her on the bed. He reached forward and took her hands. Warily, she allowed him, and so they sat with his fingers clasped around hers, resting on the bedclothes between them.

  Her body was tense. “Relax,” he said. “My father did this for me once.”

  “Your father?” Her body relaxed a little as she was distracted. “But adults aren’t perceivers.”

  Michael smiled at that. “Not everything they tell you out there is true. You’ll learn that in here.” He remembered how his father helped him block the painful perceptions, holding him in his arms, entering his mind gently and keeping away the cacophony of other people. He could not be as intimate with Pauline. “I’m going to meld my perception with yours, okay?”

  “You’re going to what?” She didn’t understand.

  “You’ll see what I mean. But if you don’t like it at any time, just tell me to stop. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed verbally, even though she really wasn’t sure.

  Michael had to drop all his blocks and filters to enable him to do it. For a moment, the residual babble of the thoughts, feelings and dreams of all the other perceivers, rumbled at the edge of his mind. Then he concentrated his perception on Pauline and probed deep.

  She gasped. She felt it. This meant she was a strong perceiver. Probably one of the reasons she broadcast herself so loud when she arrived.

  Michael allowed his perception to sit comfortably inside hers until she relaxed. Then he found her fear and locked onto it. “I imagine a wall,” he said. And inside his head – inside her head – brick by brick he piled up a barrier to keep the fear inside. “I’m going to let go of that image in a moment, but I want you to hold onto it.”

  She nodded and the movement of her head rippled through her body so he felt it through his hands. In his mind, the wall wobbled a little.

  “Don’t move, just speak,” said Michael.

  “Okay,” she said.

  He pulled his concentration back from the wall, allowing his hold on it to dissipate. The image in their minds faded for a moment, then strengthened as Pauline latched onto it.

  Pauline giggled, her attention faltered, and the wall was gone.

  “Almost,” said Michael. “Try again. On your own this time.”

  He stayed in her mind as she imagined, not a wall, but the rolling corrugated metal of an automatic garage door, gradually descending at the edge of her consciousness. Blocking not just fear, but everything in her mind, until—

  The door to Pauline’s room flung open and bashed against the wall behind. Michael pulled out of her mind. Pauline yelped.

  “WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” a deep, male voice bellowed.

  Michael and Pauline let go of each other’s hands.

  Sergeant Norman Macaulay stood silhouetted in the doorway. He was, unusually, dressed in combat fatigues with the night lights of the corridor outside highlighting his balding head.

  Michael jumped off the bed and stood to attention. “Sergeant!”

  Pauline grasped at the bedclothes and pulled them up to her chest.

  “What are you doing in here?” Norm demanded.

  “We were having trouble sleeping,” said Michael.

  “Doesn’t look to me like you were trying to sleep,” said Norm.

  “He was just—” Pauline’s explanation was cut off.

  “I don’t want to know what ‘he was just’,” said Norm. “You, madam, are new, so I shall cut you some slack, but you young man should know better. One-hour punishment duty for you tomorrow, report to my office at oh-nine-hundred.”

  “I have my debrief with Agent Cooper then,” said Michael.

  “Oh-eight-hundred, then.”

  “But—”

  “Are you questioning my order, Sanderson?”

  “No, sir,” said Michael. He hated the way Norm used his surname.

  “Because, if you are, I can give you a harsher punishment than the one I have planned.”

  “No, sir. I’m not, sir.”

  “Good,” said Norm. “You’re dismissed, Sanderson.”

  Michael flashed an apologetic look to Pauline. Sorry, he thought.

  He wasn’t sure if she was perceiving him and heard his message, but he couldn’t stay to make sure. He walked out of the room and into the corridor where Norm watched him until he was back in his own room with the door closed.

  As he crawled back into bed, Pauline’s thoughts continued to play in the background, but they were calmer and less intrusive than they were. Maybe his interrupted lesson had helped a little. He erected his own blocks to bring quiet to his mind and, despite a few moments where they weakened and allowed the images of Pauline’s dreams to slip back in, he was able to drift off to sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MICHAEL WAS FURIOUS when he came out of his debrief. Agent Cooper had listened to everything he had to say about perceiving his first suspect with the Metropolitan Police, but wasn’t interested in any of his suggestions. Michael wanted to say that it would be better if he could pass information to the police interrogator while the interview was taking place, perhaps through an earpiece, so he could be of more benefit to the investigating team. But Cooper wouldn’t hear any of it and said that, at this early stage, it was important for him to observe only and report back. That’s how the police wanted it and that’s how it was going to be until the assignment was over and an assessment was made.

  Michael had already spent an hour before the meeting carrying out punishment duty picking up litter in the grounds, thanks to Norm the Norm, so it wasn’t the best start to his day.

  ~

  IT WAS MID-MORNING by the time Michael arrived at the police station. He found Detective Inspector Graham Jones in his office, glaring at his computer as he scrolled with a mouse on his desk. He was Patterson’s boss, older than his sergeant by about ten years, displaying his seniority with the way he dressed in a smart suit of uncrinkled sober grey with a tie knotted all the way to his neck. His thinning hair, which would probably leave him virtually bald within the next five years, was clipped short and combed back. His tidiness was reflected in his desk which, apart from a stray pen by his computer keyboard, was free of clutter. The only personal touch was a framed photograph of his younger-looking self, when his hair was thick and dark, shaking the hand of a man in police uniform, probably a chief inspector of some sort.

  After a few moment
s hovering at the open door without being noticed, Michael gave it a gentle knock. Jones raised his eyes briefly to see who it was and Michael perceived a wave of indifference. He stepped inside, reeling off his prepared apology, but stopped when he realised Jones wasn’t paying any attention.

  “He committed suicide,” said Jones. He sat back in his chair and looked directly up at Michael.

  “What?” said Michael. Not that he didn’t hear, more that he didn’t understand.

  “Jerome Tyler,” said Jones. “Came back from hospital: hung himself.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know.” Jones shook his head. “There’ll be an investigation and I’ll have the IPCC on my tail. Maybe I should have put him on suicide watch … Did you ‘perceive’ anything from him. I mean, was he suicidal?”

  “No,” said Michael. “He wasn’t anything, really. His mind was strange, detached, almost empty. The only thing in his head was a desperate desire to get on the number 10 bus. If that’s any help.”

  Someone knocked on the door behind him. Michael had his filters closed in the busy police station and hadn’t sensed someone approach. It was Sergeant Anthony Patterson, looking even more haggard than the previous day, and now wearing a crumpled black suit instead of a crumpled grey one. Michael stepped aside to allow him in and Patterson took his place without acknowledging Michael was there. “A call’s come in,” Patterson told Jones. “Might be nothing, could be something. They want me to take it.”

  Jones was only half listening. “Michael thinks Tyler might have been planning to get on the number 10 bus.”

  Patterson looked across at Michael with a suspicious eye. Michael felt a moment of annoyance from him before he tightened his filters. “Was he going to blow it up?”

  “No,” said Michael. “He wanted to travel on the bus, but I couldn’t see where.”

  “Look into it will you, Tony?” said Jones.

  “Do you know where the number 10 goes?” said Patterson. “Through the whole centre of London!”

  “You may find this difficult to believe,” said Jones, “but even detective inspectors have occasion to use the bus sometimes. Of course I know where the number 10 goes.”