Mind Power Page 2

  The remote was a familiar object and he only had to glimpse it to hold it with his mind. He willed it across to his hand and caught it with ease.

  “… The charity, Victims for Justice, told us they’re outraged that this has been allowed to go on and are demanding to know the truth about the use of perceivers in public area—”

  Michael changed the channel and the irritating journalist was replaced with an irritating quiz show host. The host was ostensibly harmless, but Michael hated quizzes for the way they exposed his lack of general knowledge caused by the memory wipe he suffered when he was fifteen. So he changed channels again and ended up watching a programme about an overweight English couple who wanted to move to somewhere sunny abroad.

  He hardly tasted the rest of his dinner. By the time the bowl was empty, he was wishing he had made the effort to walk into town to buy something that wouldn’t have left his stomach bloated and his mouth with a greasy film of olive oil in it. He put the bowl on the nest of tables and debated with himself over the relative merits of watching whether the overweight couple decided to move abroad after all, or going to the kitchen to get the washing up done. Neither sounded particularly appealing.

  The doorbell gave him a third choice.

  Walking towards the front door, Michael tried to remember if he had ordered anything over the internet recently. Sometimes, if the courier called while he was at university, a neighbour would take in the parcel for him and deliver it in the evening. But, as he got to the door, he perceived the person on the other side of it wasn’t one of his neighbours.

  There was something familiar about the mind of the person who had rung the bell. But he couldn’t place it. He could have tried harder to perceive who it was, but it was easier to simply open the door.

  A woman stood in the corridor. She was about the same age as most of the students he hung about with at university and, therefore, a couple of years younger than him. She was dressed all in black with long, black hair which rested on the shoulder of her leather jacket. The only colourful thing about her was the red of her lipstick and lavender of her eye shadow.

  She smiled.

  Michael didn’t smile back. He was too much in shock. It was Pauline: the perceiver he once thought he loved.

  Three

  “Hello, Michael,” said Pauline.

  “Pauline,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Michael was mesmerised by her face. She looked every bit a woman now, whereas the person he remembered had been a teenager. At the same time as he looked; he perceived. She could have blocked him if she wanted to – he could tell she was as strong as ever – but she let him feel her emotions. She was pleased to see him, a little nervous and also a little surprised to find that he was actually living there.

  “Can I come in?” she said.

  It was only then that he realised he’d been keeping her standing in the cold of the corridor. “Oh yes, of course.” He stepped aside.

  Pauline stepped through the doorway and looked around. He self-consciously watched her size up the sofa, armchair, TV and little nest of tables with the bowl that once held his dinner. “Smells nice,” she said.

  “It was only pasta and pesto,” he said.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me the question I can perceive you want to ask?”

  Michael felt himself blush. It had been a long time since his thoughts were overheard by another perceiver. “How did you find me?”

  She turned to face him. There was a mischievous smile on her lips. “Micky Page?” she said. “Not a very inspired nom de plume if you didn’t want to be found – using your biological mother’s surname.”

  “It seemed to work until now.”

  “Until a video of you using your powers went flying round the internet.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “There’s no point lying to me,” said Pauline. “I’m a perceiver, remember?”

  He felt the heat of embarrassment again. He tried to find out what she was doing at his flat by getting into her mind, but she was skilled enough only to reveal her outer emotions. “How did you know it was me? On the video, I mean.”

  “You’re the only perceiver with telekinesis that we know of. If it wasn’t you, then we needed to find out who it was. And if it was you, then we needed to find out why you lied about losing your powers.”

  “I didn’t lie,” said Michael. “They came back after I left the Perceiver Corps.”

  She nodded. She had to believe him because he couldn’t lie to her without her knowing it. “What do you say about making me a cup of tea and sitting down to talk about it?”

  “I don’t think I have any tea,” said Michael.

  “Coffee, then. Looks like you could do with a cup of something.”

  “Yeah.”

  He walked into the kitchen and Pauline followed.

  She engaged in small talk while he went through the ritual of getting mugs from the cupboard and putting the kettle on. He was glad to have something normal to do, as he was still in shock from seeing her.

  “Nice flat,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bit posh for a student, isn’t it?”

  “My mum helps out with the rent,” said Michael.

  “Your real mum? The one who brought you up? I thought you didn’t speak to her.”

  “I’m trying to build some sort of relationship with her. What with my dad in jail and everything. It’s weird because she remembers bringing me up as a child and I don’t remember anything about her, so …”

  The kettle came to the boil. He poured the water over a spoonful of granular coffee at the bottom of each mug. They fizzed briefly as the bitter, smoky smell of coffee rose into the kitchen. Out of habit, he went to the fridge. It was only when he opened the door that he remembered there was virtually nothing in it.

  “I’ve got no milk, sorry. Are you okay with black?”

  “Black’s fine,” said Pauline.

  He handed her the mug and they went back into the living room. Pauline naturally gravitated towards the sofa and Michael went back to the armchair. But he didn’t sink into its springy cushions like he had when he sat down to watch the TV. He sat on the edge and leant forward. He may not have been able to perceive exactly the reason for Pauline being there – not without her feeling him push past her barriers – but he knew it was more than a social call.

  Pauline blew across the surface of her drink, sending a mini cloud of steam out into the room. She brought it to her lips, but she must have sensed the liquid was too hot and lowered it to her lap again.

  “What happened with your powers?” she said.

  “I thought they’d been destroyed by the serum,” he said. The serum he had taken to boost his perceiver abilities during the mission which had killed their friend, Alex. Even the passing memory of it was painful and he pushed it away. “I didn’t have any perceiver powers at all, not for months. Agent Cooper agreed I couldn’t be of any use in the Perceiver Corps, so he let me go. He set me up on a course so I could get up to speed with my education and apply to university. Then my perception started to come back. Just little bits and pieces at first. An overheard thought one week, a perceived emotion the next. By the time a year had gone past, I was as strong as I ever was. Even my telekinesis came back.”

  “But you didn’t tell Agent Cooper?”

  “I didn’t want to go back there. I still don’t want to go back. That’s not why you’re here is it?”

  “No,” said Pauline. But there was something in her head that suggested she wasn’t telling the entire truth.

  “I can tell you didn’t come here because you wanted to see me,” said Michael.

  He perceived she still blamed him for what happened to Alex. It was in her emotions: quieter than it had been in the days after it happened, but still present.

  Pauline made another attempt to take a sip of her hot coffee and sat back into the sofa like she was preparing for a long explanatio
n. “You’ve heard the news, I suppose.”

  “About perceivers?”

  She nodded. “It’s all going to come out now. That journalist has pulled down a hornets’ nest and now that it’s started to swarm, more journalists are piling in on the story. They’re going to uncover everything about us and it’s happening so fast, I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”

  “What has that got to do with me?”

  “We need you, Michael.”

  Michael shook his head. “I left.”

  “You lied to get out,” said Pauline.

  Michael put his mug down on the nest of tables as he felt himself getting animated. He didn’t want the damn drink in the first place and he sure as hell didn’t want to spill it on his clean carpet. “They let me go,” he insisted. “I didn’t know I was going to get my perception back and it happened so slowly that by the time it was back to normal, I had a life here. I got accepted to university, I’ve made friends here – norm friends. I don’t want to go back.”

  “So you’re going to leave us to deal with it like it’s got nothing to do with you?”

  “No, Pauline, it’s not like that.”

  But her disappointment and anger were easily perceptible. She stood up from the sofa. “It was a mistake coming here.”

  Michael stood up too. It had been a long time since he had seen Pauline and, even though the death of Alex had placed a barrier between them, seeing her again reminded him of how he used to feel.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” she said, thrusting the mug into Michael’s hands. It was still full; she hadn’t drunk a drop. “But I think I should go.”

  “No, Pauline, please stay.” He followed her to the door. “At least tell me how you’re getting on.”

  She put her hand on the door handle, but didn’t turn it. “I work for the government now,” she said.

  “Didn’t we always work for the government?” he said.

  “I mean the actual government. At Westminster where the MPs are. They’re worried about this whole perceiver thing. They don’t say it to me in so many words, but I can perceive that they’re frightened about public unrest much worse than the riots five years ago. Now that people think they were being spied on and lied to by the government, there could be a huge backlash. The Prime Minister was looking for an advisor to help, someone who understands perceivers but who isn’t connected to Agent Cooper. I thought you could be that person, but obviously not.”

  She opened the door. The chill from the corridor spilled into the room as Pauline pulled up her blocks and cut off Michael’s access to her disappointed and angry emotions.

  “Don’t go like this,” said Michael. “Come back and sit down. Tell me how the others at Galen House are getting on. Is Norm the Norm still there?”

  “What do you care? You left.” She stepped out into the corridor and turned to face him one last time. “Have a nice life. Enjoy your university degree and your norm friends and your nice little flat that your mum’s paying for. I’m sure it’s better than facing up to the truth of what you are.”

  She strode off down the corridor, the heels of her boots tapping on the hard floor. Michael watched her until she got to the end and disappeared into the stairwell. He pulled back the fringe from his suddenly hot head. It was too late to realise he should have said more to make her stay.

  Four

  Michael ran. The steady beat of his trainers on the streets of Nottingham thumped through his body and joined the beating of his heart. He controlled his breathing to match his feet: forcing the air from his lungs each time his left foot hit the ground. Until he wasn’t thinking about it anymore. Until the rhythm of his steps were part of him and his breaths came and went without being told. There was only the road ahead with its occasional roadside tree that he would challenge himself to reach and eventually pass, before targeting a new tree.

  If there were other people on the street, he didn’t perceive them. The only things in his head were his own thoughts and emotions which pounded through his mind with each step. Pauline still lived in there, along with the things that he should have done and should have said to her. He turned their conversation over and over and tried to outrun his feelings of guilt.

  As he turned towards the university, he saw Ian up ahead. His running companion had stopped and gave him a wave before stretching out a leg and leaning over to elongate the muscles in his thigh. Michael slowed as he approached and reached to his right wrist to stop his running watch. He glanced at the figures: five miles in just under forty-five minutes. It was a good time.

  “Had a nice stroll?” said Ian. Michael could perceive he was joking, even as his mouth broke into a tell-tale grin.

  “We can’t all be …” he took a deep breath, “… Superman like you … you know.”

  “What was your time?”

  Michael showed him his watch.

  “That’s equal your best, isn’t it?”

  “Nearly,” said Michael. He’d had to wait a frustratingly long time to cross a road at one point otherwise he might even have beaten his best time for five miles. Training with Ian was really going to improve his performance.

  He stretched out the muscles in his legs like he had been taught in the running club and his breathing soon recovered into a more leisurely pattern. By the time he’d finished, Ian looked like he was getting cold.

  “Come on, let’s get back to the showers,” said Michael.

  The two of them headed up Beeston Lane to the university gym. Michael had started to get cold, too, and he knew if he didn’t hit the shower soon he might start shivering.

  Ahead of them were three young women – students, by the look of their casual dress – one of whom was trying to press leaflets into the hands of passing pedestrians. The other two held clipboards and were casting their eyes about for victims to pounce on. A man with a large sports holdall over one shoulder, and sleeked down wet hair like he’d just come out of the shower, couldn’t avoid being stopped by the short blonde one. In less than a minute, he’d put down his bag and was signing up to whatever she was collecting signatures for.

  “I wonder what that’s all about?” said Ian.

  “Let’s go round them,” said Michael.

  “Morning!” said the second girl with a clipboard. She was also not particularly tall and wore a navy blue woollen hat down over her ears with only a few wisps of black hair sticking out of the bottom.

  “Morning!” said Ian.

  Michael didn’t know why he was engaging with her, when everyone knew the trick of avoiding people was to walk quickly by while examining your own shoes. Until he realised Ian wasn’t trying to avoid her at all: he was flirting with her.

  The third woman thrust a leaflet into Michael’s hands. He didn’t notice what she looked like because all of his attention was taken by the headline: Ban Perceiver Spies.

  “We’re collecting signatures to demand perceivers be banned,” she was telling Ian. “We think it’s a breach of our human rights to allow them to spy on our minds. We want the government to come clean over how they’ve been secretly using perceivers in the police force and the legal system and in business, and take them out of every aspect of public life.”

  “Yeah, I’ll sign,” said Ian.

  At first Michael thought he was saying it because he was still flirting with the girl. But then he perceived him and realised that he agreed with all the rubbish that she was spouting.

  Ian completed his signature and handed the clipboard over to Michael. Michael stepped back from it like it was contaminated with a deadly germ.

  “Come on, Micky.” He held out the pen.

  Michael shook his head. “Perceivers are people.”

  “I’ve got nothing against perceivers being people,” said Ian. “I knew a couple of perceiver kids when I was at school, but they did the right thing and they got the cure.”

  Michael would have closed off his perception so he couldn’t feel the bitterness his friend had for him
and people like him, but he was so shocked, he kept perceiving it. He wanted to ask Ian if he would sign the petition if they wanted to ban people with a different colour skin or people who couldn’t run because they were in a wheelchair. But he feared he might give too much away, so he said nothing.

  “Look, I’m going to have a shower back at my flat,” said Michael.

  “That’s like a mile in the other direction,” said Ian.

  “I just remembered I haven’t got any shampoo in my locker.” He stepped away to indicate he was keen to go.

  “You can borrow my shampoo.”

  “No, it’s all right,” said Michael. “I have this special stuff, I get dandruff if I don’t use it.”

  The woman took her clipboard and pen back from Ian, apparently realising she wasn’t going to get a signature from Michael. “If you change your mind, you can sign our petition online,” she said. “All the details are in the leaflet.”

  Michael looked down at his hand where, he saw, he was still holding their printed piece of propaganda. As he turned away from the man he thought was his friend, he let go of the leaflet and it drifted away in the breeze. He broke into a run and didn’t stop until he reached his flat.

  Michael rested his head against the window in the back of the taxi and let the rumble of his journey from the train station thump through his skull. The dying green of the English countryside in the throes of autumn blurred past him in a mess of gold, red and brown. The sign on the back of the seat in front of him said that it was a no smoking vehicle, and yet the dirty smell of old smoke was all around him. It seemed to be part of the upholstery. He was beginning to suspect the cabbie was a smoker himself and would occasionally have a crafty cigarette when he didn’t have a passenger.

  The radio switched from an advert for a local double glazing firm to the news jingle and, without realising it, Michael was suddenly listening to more fallout from the journalist’s exposé into the use of perceivers. The newsreader was still using phrases like “reported that” and “according to” to suggest that nothing had been confirmed, but Michael knew that it was all true. He used to be one of those perceivers who used to spy on people. He used to work with the police and look into the minds of suspects to see if they had really committed the crime they were accused of. He thought he was doing his public duty at the time, but it seemed the public thought his actions were reprehensible, immoral, and even inhuman.