Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1)

MIND SECRETS

~ Perceivers Book 1 ~

by

Jane Killick

A science fiction telepathy thriller

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CHAPTER ONE

THE CARPET STANK
of rubber and stale coffee. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying face down, but it was long enough for the pattern of scratchy fibres to embed itself in his cheek. Blinking himself to consciousness in the fluorescent light, he saw the carpet was dark brown and ran the length of a corridor of glass doors that led into dark offices. He tried to remember how he got there. He tried to remember why he had passed out. But the only thing in his mind was a pressing headache.

He drew up his knees and pulled himself to a sitting position, fighting the sudden dizziness that came over him. He leant back against the flimsy partition wall which wobbled under his slight teenage weight and allowed his mind to clear. Breathing deep, he relaxed his whole body, except for a tension in his right wrist that spread down through his hand and all the way up his forearm. Looking down, he saw – gripped tightly in his fist – the smooth plastic handle of a kitchen knife, its wide stainless steel blade glinting silver.

He didn’t know why he had a knife. Just as he didn’t know where the building was or what he was doing there. He tried hard to think back to before he had woken up on the floor, but reaching for the memories was like grasping at smoke. Every time he tried to remember, his thoughts drifted away into nothing. He tried to think about ordinary things: about his family, his home, his past … but he couldn’t remember them. Looking inside his mind was like looking into a darkness, as black as a night with no moon or stars.

“Michael?” a woman’s voice called from somewhere in the building.

He tensed. His name, it seemed, was Michael.

She called again, close enough to be heard, but far enough away to sound ghostly. “Michael, please come back!”

The voice seemed familiar, but it scared him. Michael looked at the knife in his hand and wondered if she was the reason he held onto it so tightly.

Michael staggered to his feet, reaching out for support from the partition wall, until he stood up straight. At the end of the corridor, a fire escape sign with the green symbol of a running man pointed to an emergency exit. Michael decided to take it.

The fire door was locked with a metal safety bar across the middle. He pushed it, the lock sprung free and the door opened onto a concrete landing. He stepped through, as fire alarms wailed around him, and looked down at a stairwell that spiralled flight after flight for at least ten storeys.

Michael let the door shut behind him and started running down, the incessant alarm bell echoing off the hard grey walls and stairs around him. It was easy at first, his feet cascaded down the stairs with the light touch of a dancer, but his muscles soon tired and he found himself touching the handrail as he went. Halfway down one flight, he misjudged a step and grabbed onto the handrail to stop himself falling head over heels to the bottom. He slowed a little and concentrated more as he kept going, so the only things he was aware of were his feet, the stairs and the agonising wail of the fire bell.

He didn’t see the red-faced man until he reached the bottom of one flight of stairs and turned at the same time as the man climbed onto the landing from the flight below. He was at least in his forties, slightly overweight and out of breath from climbing several sets of stairs. He wore a black suit with an open-necked white shirt, so he obviously wasn’t a fireman.

“Hello, Michael,” said the man.

Michael flinched at the use of his name. He felt the smoothness of the knife handle in his fist, held out of sight behind his leg.

The man pressed a finger to a communication device sticking out of his ear. “This is Agent Cooper,” he said. “The kid’s on the fire stairs, between floors three and four.”

Michael took a step forward, but Agent Cooper sidestepped to block his path. “You’re not going anywhere,” said Cooper.

Michael pulled out the knife and held the blade in front of him, scared to hell that he might have to use it.

“Give that to me,” said Cooper, presenting the palm of his hand.

“No,” said Michael, the blade wavering nervously in front of him.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Cooper. “My men are in the building, there’s no escape.”

A noise above made Michael jump. It was another fire door opening and the sound of several pairs of shoes striking the concrete surface. He flicked his gaze up to see.

Cooper took his opportunity and reached for the knife. The flash of his black suit against the concrete grey at the corner of Michael’s eye made him jump back. Just in time, as Cooper grabbed only air.

“Why don’t you surrender to me?” said Cooper. “There’s nowhere else to go, you know that.”

“No.” Michael shook his head. The same instinct that told him to hold onto the knife, told him he mustn’t surrender to Cooper, no matter what.

But if he was going to escape, he had to do it soon, because he could hear the footsteps above closing in.

The fire escape was wide enough to evacuate a building of least ten storeys and Cooper was only one man standing in his way. He was near to the handrail, which meant there was a gap between his body and the outer wall. Not a big one, but if Michael was quick, he could slip through.

He made a break for it.

Cooper – quicker and more agile than he looked – lunged for Michael. Cooper’s shoulder rammed into his chest and slammed him back against the wall, as Michael swung the blade wildly like a sword. Michael cried out as his spine hit concrete, but his knife arm was still free. He thrust it forward, aiming for the open target of Cooper’s flabby belly. Cooper sucked in his stomach, releasing the pressure on Michael enough for him to break free.

He’d only taken one step before Cooper grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him back. Michael whirled around, swiping with his blade. Cooper ducked as the knife narrowly missed slicing into his forehead. He caught Michael’s wrist mid-air before the knife could swing back. Michael lashed out with his other arm, punching at Cooper with his closed fist, but Cooper stopped him before Michael’s knuckles could hit home, grabbing his forearm and holding onto it.

The two were in deadlock: Michael’s arms held strongly in Cooper’s grip; the knife hovering sideways between them, its blade threatening to go in either direction as they jostled for position.

“Drop the knife, Michael, don’t be stupid,” said Cooper, his red face centimetres from Michael, staring at him with determined eyes.

Michael held tight to the knife handle, even as his wrist was squeezed and the tendons inside weakened. Cooper was strong, stronger than him. He was larger and heavier too. The only way to defeat him was for Michael to use that advantage against him.

Michael suddenly shifted sideways. Cooper was pressing so hard that he collapsed under his own body weight. Stumbling forward, he pushed the knife away from him. Michael screamed as his own wrist was forced back and the tip of the blade plunged into his opposite arm. Pain ignited in his muscle and burnt up to his shoulder and down to his hand.

Cooper let go, stepping back as he realised what he had done.

Michael staggered back too, staring at the knife – which he still held – sticking out of his own arm, blood oozing from around the wound.

“Let’s stop this now,” said Cooper, looking genuinely shocked. “Come with me and we can fix your arm.”

“
No!
” cried Michael. He pulled out the knife – stifling a scream as a second, searing pain spread from the wound – and held it out towards Cooper. “Stay back.”

The blade dripped with blood onto the concrete floor between them. The bleeding from Michael’s arm became worse without the blade inside it and ran a warm trickle past his elbow to his fingertips.

“Sir!” called a man from above – the owner of one pair of footsteps – now only a flight away.

Cooper looked up, and that was his mistake.

In that moment of distraction, Michael took his chance. He surged forward, aiming for the space between Cooper and the handrail, just large enough for his body to pass. Cooper wasn’t distracted for long enough and leapt to close the gap. His ample belly blocked the way, but Michael wouldn’t be stopped and thrust the knife forward. The point plunged through Cooper’s shirt and into his flesh as the man cried out, his horrified scream echoing around the bare walls of the stairwell.

Michael let go of the knife and staggered backwards. Cooper slumped against the handrail, staring at the handle sticking out of his belly as his white shirt flooded with the red of his blood. He looked at Michael, his eyes glassy with shock, as his body collapsed underneath him.

“Sir!” cried the man above.

The voice jolted Michael into action. He turned and ran, the fatigue in his leg muscles forgotten as he raced down the steps, flight after flight, until he reached the fire door at the bottom. He pushed the bar lock and virtually fell out into the street.

He tasted the freedom of the cool night air, but footsteps still pursued him. So he kept running, clutching his injured arm as blood seeped between his fingers, fearing that whatever reason he had for running from Cooper, he must also run because he was a murderer.

CHAPTER TWO

MICHAEL STOPPED
a short distance from the hospital entrance. Bright white light spilled out of the sliding glass doors ahead, offering a refuge from the dark of the night. He hesitated. The throbbing in his arm where the knife had sunk its blade pleaded for attention, but he feared that walking through the Accident and Emergency doors would draw attention of a different kind. If Cooper’s men were still hunting him, they would check with local hospitals for a teenage boy who’d been stabbed in the arm.

A nurse in short-sleeved blue uniform dress, shivering in the night breeze, stood drawing on the butt of a cigarette by the entrance. She let out a final plume of smoke, dropped the butt and ground it into the tarmac with the toe of her shoe. He wondered why a woman with medical training was smoking when she must know what it was doing to her body.

She noticed him watching and gave him a smile. “Are you all right, love?”

Michael averted his eyes and looked to the ground where he saw a browning spot of blood had soaked into one of his trainers. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, turning to walk away.

She hurried a few steps to join him, bringing the lingering smell of smoke on her clothes and breath. “You don’t look fine,” she said, gazing pointedly at the blood-encrusted sleeve of his shirt.

“It’s stopped bleeding now,” said Michael, “so actually I don’t need any help.”

“It could get infected,” said the nurse. “At least let me clean it up for you.”

She had a warm smile, it was cold outside and he had nowhere else to go, so he let her guide him inside the hospital.

A blast of air from heaters above the door greeted him as he walked into the reception area of A&E. The lights were so bright he actually squinted a bit until his eyes grew accustomed to them. Only a few people were there, dotted about on plastic chairs which were screwed to the floor in rows. An elderly couple on the back row with their coats buttoned up, a man with a bloodied bandaged hand sitting on the end of a row tapping his toe obsessively in front of him and a pair of teenagers at the front. A medical orderly in white tunic and trousers walked past at a casual pace. It was not the hustle and bustle he had expected. It was, perhaps, a quiet night.

The nurse, who Michael saw wore a name badge that said J. Hobson, took him to the front reception desk where a woman looked up from her computer.

“Linda, I’m taking this lad straight through to the cubicles, okay?” said Nurse Hobson.

The receptionist shrugged and typed something on her computer.

Hobson turned to the left and led Michael past the two teenagers sitting in the front row of the waiting area. The boy clutched his right arm close to his chest as if it would fall off if he let go. He was younger than Michael, maybe fourteen years old, pock-marked black skin, stringy hair and suspicious eyes.

“Oi!” he shouted at Hobson as she approached. “I was next.”

The girl he was with nudged his good arm and hushed him to be quiet. She was a little older, with flawless brown skin and shiny black hair that fell in waves to her shoulders.

The nurse kept walking.

“I was talking to you,
Nurse Janice Hobson
,” said the boy.

The nurse flinched at hearing her name. Michael could only assume the boy knew her first name from outside of the hospital because her badge had only given her initial. “Wait your turn,” she told him, giving him one cursory look before turning to walk off.