Mind Blind

I was shaking with fear, though it wasn’t my own fear. I hadn’t been scared when I slid past the police surveillance outside the girl’s house, nor when I broke in. But as I slipped deeper into the memory of her fear, I started to shiver.

Why had Vivien felt so scared in her own house? If I could understand that, maybe I could find what I was searching for.

I shut the door of the understairs cupboard and knelt down inside, squashed between rows of green wellies and piles of board games.

In the dark, I slipped further into Vivien’s memory.

I felt the same bumpy floorboards under my knees that she’d felt. I was kneeling in exactly the same place. She had definitely been hiding here, in this cupboard, when she got grit on her fingertips.

Why had she been hiding inside her own house?

Probably because she didn’t want to be caught with her hand in the urn. She didn’t want to be seen rummaging in her nana’s ashes. I must be on the right track.

I’d broken into her family’s house hoping to find the place she’d been thinking about when we fought in the van, hoping to find what she had hidden.

Vivien had put the light on, so I reached up and pressed the switch. Then I took my gloves off, because what she’d felt on her fingertips might be the key to what I was searching for. I could put my gloves on again if I had to touch anything that would hold a print.

I knew there would now be a line of light shining under the cupboard door, but I was sure no one was around to see
it. I couldn’t tell exactly how many people were in the Shaw house, because sleeping minds are too blurry for me to count, but there had been no one awake when I broke in. Now I had to risk bringing my whole concentration inwards to Vivien’s memories, and hope no one would wake up while I did.

I closed my eyes.

The memory I had from Vivien’s mind was so short. She hadn’t remembered opening the box, opening the urn or even putting anything inside. All I had was:

Grit on her fingers and the contrast to the smooth light object those fingers had held a moment before. The grit pressing on her fingertips as she twisted the lid back on. Holding the urn with one hand and the box with the other. The weight of the box on her thighs when she put the urn inside. Leaning back against the door to give herself room to bend the box lid over. I leant back too.

She felt guilty, but she was also excited. This memory was full of secrets and hiding. And fear. What was she afraid of?

Then she closed the box.

Where did she put it? Tidying up isn’t as exciting as hiding a secret, so she hadn’t thought about that when we were screaming at each other.

I went even deeper into her memory, hoping to glimpse where she’d planned to put the box.

Knees on floor.

Grit on fingertips.

Box getting heavier.

Door opening…

Had someone seen her?

The door opened…

SHIT!

I crashed out of Vivien’s memory, and out of the cupboard.

The door hadn’t opened in her memory. It had opened behind me!

I fell backwards onto the floor. I rolled away and thumped
into the wall. Then I rolled the other way, panic knocking all the training out of my head.

Who had crept up on me? One of Vivien’s family? One of the policemen from the street? Whose fear was I sensing?

I was blinded in the dim hall after the bright cupboard.

Then someone stood on me. A bare foot on my chest.

Now I wasn’t just sensing fear, I was reading thoughts and questions. I almost screamed. But I couldn’t let the police outside hear me. So I gritted my teeth, forced the panic and nausea down into my guts, and tried to get out from under the foot.

I couldn’t escape.

I wasn’t being pinned down by the weight of the person, but by their emotions and questions.

I was trapped on the carpet by…

By a girl!

I am so crap.

My eyes were adjusting. I could see her now. This girl had the same dark skin and brown eyes as Vivien, but she was shorter, with wilder hair, and she was dressed in red pyjamas rather than a blue coat.

She was glaring at me. All her questions were crashing into me, through the foot on my chest.

Who is he?

What’s he doing here?

Why doesn’t he push me off and get up?

How long has he been here?

Did he come into my room?

Oh god. I should have called the police instead of coming downstairs.

I should run.

Why doesn’t he run?

I couldn’t run. I was trying so hard not to scream that I could hardly breathe.

I am so crap.

She was staring at me, battering me with her thoughts.

He looks more scared than I am.

Why isn’t he getting up?

Why is he such a wimp?

Good question. Why am I such a wimp?

I finally dragged in enough breath to fling my arm up and push her foot away.

My sudden movement took her by surprise. She lost her balance, falling awkwardly against the wall.

I leapt up.

We were facing each other across the narrow hallway.

And we were the only people in the house.

Now this girl was awake, I could tell there was no one else asleep upstairs.

Now this girl was no longer touching me, she wasn’t disabling me with her terrified thoughts.

Now I was on my feet, I was taller, bigger, scarier than her.

And she was alone.

I grinned at her.

Her head jerked back.

The more confident I looked the more afraid she was.

So I might be able to convince this girl that I was in control. But I knew I was making a huge mess of this job.

I’d been seen, which meant I could be identified.

I’d been seen by Vivien’s younger sister. I knew her name from the files: Lucy Kingston Shaw.

I breathed out, long and easy. I reached into my pocket for my black leather gloves and slipped them on.

She was really scared now. Perhaps it looked like I was going to strangle her. I had to calm her down, because if she started screaming, the police would hear.

I wiggled my fingers. “Fingerprints,” I whispered. “Silly me. Should have had them on all the time.”

“You’re a burglar?” she whispered back.

I shrugged.

“You’re a pretty useless burglar.”

Great. She’d known me for less than a minute and she’d already realised I was crap. But that was ok. She was relaxing. Now that I was incompetent, I was less scary.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked. “When I pulled you out of the cupboard? You looked like I was killing you or…”

The word ‘killing’ jolted her with sudden grief. She was still half-asleep, perhaps she’d half-forgotten about her sister. But she didn’t want to discuss that with me, so she kept asking questions.

“Who are you? What are you doing in our house? What were you stealing from under the stairs?”

“Wellies,” I said seriously. “You’ve got wonderful wellies in there.”

She almost smiled, then frowned. I could sense her confusion. There was still fear, but less panic now.

She was only a mindblind. I had much more information about this conversation than she did. I should be able to guide it in the right direction.

First, I didn’t want her to do anything to alert the policemen, so I needed her to stay calm. Then, while I had a member of the Shaw family all to myself, I could ask her some questions, find out where the urn was, so I could get what I’d been searching for and go.

This girl had already seen too much, so she would probably have to be silenced. I should get information from her while I had the chance.

She was staring at me. She was more awake now, and soon she was going to react rationally to finding a stranger in her house. Soon she was going to call for help. Even if she didn’t know about the police outside, when she got scared enough, she’d start yelling for the neighbours.

I took a step away from her, moving along the wall towards the kitchen and the back door.

I smiled again. That didn’t help. Perhaps I don’t have a very reassuring smile. Maybe I’m better at scaring people. Or killing them, it turns out.

So I said quietly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

That was probably true. My Uncle Malcolm was going to kill her, but I wasn’t going to hurt her. Not unless I had to.

I kept my voice gentle and even, smoothing the harsh West of Scotland accent that Londoners tend to associate with TV gangsters. “I can leave now or I can tell you why I’m here.”

“You’re not really here for the wellies, then?”

I managed a half-laugh at her brave attempt at a joke. “Do you want me to tell you why I’m here?”

She nodded.

“I came here to find one tiny thing. If you give it to me, I’ll go away. And if you don’t tell anyone I was here, you’ll never see me again.”

“I’m not giving you anything! How dare you break into my
house, then ask me to let you steal something and keep your break-in secret?”

She was getting angry. I didn’t need to read her mind to know that, any mindblind would notice. She was raising her voice, stepping towards me, fists clenched.

Her anger was giving her confidence. I had to bring her down a few notches. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?”

“What?”

“Let’s sit down. I’m really not going to hurt you. Honestly.”

I turned my back on her and walked into the kitchen. It was a calculated risk. If she ran for the front door or grabbed a phone or started to scream, then I could probably get out the back door and over the fence before the police reacted.

But if she followed me, I’d know she wanted to talk to me. Then I could get answers.

She followed me, fear, curiosity and confusion battling inside her as she padded into the kitchen and switched on the light. I sat down at the table, but she stood by the light switch.

“Do you really want tea?” she asked.

“Yes.” Actually I didn’t want tea, but it would calm her down to make it.

“Builder’s tea or herbal? I can do hemlock, arsenic, belladonna.”

I smiled at her poisonous joke. “Ha ha. I’ll have whatever you’re having. And a biscuit, if you’re having one.”

“I don’t think I’m having anything. I haven’t managed to eat much since… em…”

She sat down and put her head in her hands. She was suddenly overwhelmed with grief. She wasn’t crying, just lost in sadness and disbelief.

I got up and opened the fridge, looking for something sweet. It was all healthy stuff, no full-strength coke or Irn-Bru or anything useful. I found a carton of orange-and-mango juice, and poured some into a clean glass from the dishwasher.

“Drink this. Sugar will help.”

She took a sip, then a gulp, then drained the glass. I refilled it.

I sat down again and we stared at each other. She was a mess. The more awake she became, the worse she was coping. She was grief-stricken, scared, confused and angry. But at least she wasn’t dehydrated.

What was I doing? I was talking to Vivien’s sister. She’d seen my face, heard my voice. What the hell was I doing?

But I’d done it now. I might as well follow through. If I got the codenames, it would be worth it.

I needed to know how long I had with this girl. I needed to know when her parents were due home.

“Why are you alone in the house? Where’s everyone else?”

She was instantly suspicious. “How do you know I’m alone?”

“If your mum or dad or anyone else was here, you’d have shouted as soon as you found me. Why have they left you on your own?”

“Because I told them to. Because I didn’t want to go and sit in another depressing room hearing people cry and I didn’t want them hugging me and telling me I’m the future now and I’m sick of it already and I told them to go out if they had to talk to Grampa, but I would stay here and get some peace and quiet and they could be as long as they liked and I wouldn’t care, and Mum didn’t want to leave me so I said if I had to spend one more minute being guarded and watched then I’d just go out and find my very own murderer!”

She glared at me.

Wow. I didn’t need to read this girl’s mind. She would tell me all her thoughts for free if I asked the right question.

“Have I?” she demanded.

“Have you what?”

“Have I found my own murderer?”

I went cold.

“Did you kill my sister?”

She couldn’t read my mind. So I should say,
What? Has someone killed your sister?
I should act surprised.

But I didn’t answer. I didn’t act anything. I just stared at her.

“Did you kill my sister? Did you kill Viv?”

I looked at my hands in their black gloves.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”