Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1) (26 page)

By Sian Jones, staff reporter

Teenagers are planning to flock to London on Monday in a secret plan to bring the capital to a standstill, The Daily News has learnt. Thousands of perceivers who oppose the government’s plan to return normality to our streets have been organising behind the scenes to stage an illegal march on Parliament.

“We’ve been told to go down to the clinic to get the cure for our perception like it’s a flu shot,” said organiser Jennifer Price. “But what we have isn’t a disease, it’s part of us and we should have a say in whether it’s taken away.”

Underground websites are urging teenagers to leave their classrooms to join the demonstration. “Don’t tell your parents or your teachers, don’t tell your brothers and sisters,” proclaimed one site. “Just get up in the morning and join us. Sneak out of the house in your school uniform if you have to, but make sure your voice is heard.”

That site has since been shut down by officials, but the viral nature of the internet means the information continues to spread. Regional groups of perceivers are believed to be organising transport to get into London on the Monday. There are fears classrooms could be emptied and teenagers will spill out onto the roads and stop traffic. There’s even concern young tempers could flare and violence could break out in what is planned to be an illegal protest.

The Metropolitan Police confirms no group has applied for a march or demonstration permit in the controlled zone around Parliament. But a source within the security services admitted they have been following what they call ‘internet chatter’. “We’re not concerned,” the source told The Daily News. “We believe this is an isolated group of teenagers with delusions of grandeur. We foresee no public disorder occurring in the capital or elsewhere on Monday. We are, however, keeping an eye on the situation and liaising with our colleagues at the Met to ensure public safety is not put at risk.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Jennifer sat in a dark corner of the coffee shop, her trademark large coat wrapped around her and a paper copy of
The Daily News
in her hand. Her attention was consumed by it. She didn’t notice Michael walk up to her.

“Got your message,” said Michael.

She looked up from her curled up position on the low coffee-house sofa. Her eyes were red and the dim lights picked up the remains of tears underneath. “You were right,” she said. She threw the paper down on the coffee table with disgust. The headline looked darker and uglier on paper than it had done on the tiny screen of his phone. Underneath, her picture in younger happier times in her school uniform, was the only one smiling.

“You want coffee?” he asked.

“That’d be great.”

He noticed, then, she already had a full cup on the table. He went to the counter anyway. After all Jennifer had done for him back in the past, the least he could do was buy her a coffee.

The place was full, despite it being one of three coffee shops in the street, and Michael had to queue. Businessmen and women in suits holding relaxed meetings with each other, casually dressed customers on phones and laptops, a jogger with a fruit smoothie; and noise everywhere. Conversations that merged into one and bounced off the walls, mixed with the grinding of coffee beans and the frothing of milk. Jennifer had chosen a good place to meet. It was somewhere where they could be anonymous. Just another couple of coffee drinkers.

Jennifer’s coffee smelt bitter as he carried it back to the table. Amazing how its pungency overcame the background smell of everyone else’s coffee in the building. He’d paid far too much for a bottle of orange juice for himself and a bagel which made his stomach rumble when he looked at it.

He put Jennifer’s coffee on the table next to the one she had hardly touched and sat next to her. She was staring at the paper again.

“How many times have you read that?” he said.

She tapped the paper with her index finger. “Teenagers with a sense of grandeur!” she quoted.

“I know,” said Michael.

“How could she do this?”

“I don’t know. She’s a journalist, I suppose, it’s what she does.”

“My skankin’ mother! She was ‘so proud’ of me that she just ‘had to tell’ the ‘lovely lady’ all about the ‘little thing’ I was planning in London. You’d think she was old enough to understand the meaning of ‘secret’.”

Jennifer was wobbling in the way people do when they are fighting emotion. In her case, a mixture of betrayal, anger and despair. Michael reached across and held her hand. He didn’t know what else to do.

She sniffed and got control of herself. “I shouldn’t’ve told her in the first place. It was stupid.”

Jennifer looked up. She whisked her hand away from Michael’s. He followed her gaze to see a familiar figure with shocking blond hair approach their table.

Michael stood up. “Otis!”

“Michael mate!” Otis put out his hand for Michael to shake, then changed his mind and put his arms round him in a bear hug. “You’re okay. You’re really okay. I thought, after the hotel room, y’know …”

He let go of his embrace and Michael got a chance to have a good look at him. He looked just the same. But it was the first time he was able to perceive him. There was a confidence about him. A friendliness that hid a sense of wariness beneath.

“Hey, Jen, how ya doin’?” he said as he sat down next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders and she sank into his body. Michael perceived how he – more than any other – was able to comfort her. Michael tried not to be jealous. Otis was a perceiver and would know.

Jennifer sniffed again. “I’m okay.”

“I tried to call you to say I was running late,” said Otis, “but I couldn’t get through.”

“I turned off my phone,” said Jennifer. “Journalists kept calling me.”

“Ah,” said Otis. He picked up the paper and frowned at the headline. He chucked it dismissively back on the table. “I’m going to get some coffee,” he said. “Anyone else?”

“Have this one,” said Michael. Jennifer was never going to drink both coffees, he realised, and passed the one he’d just bought across to Otis.

“Cheers.”

“I heard you’d been arrested,” said Michael.

“Got community service,” said Otis. “It was my first offence, so they went easy on me.”

“Did they make you …?” Michael began.

Otis finished his sentence with a whisper. “… have the cure?” He gave a mischievous grin. “They gave me an appointment as part of my release conditions. Of course, I didn’t actually turn up, so I suppose I’m a fugitive.”

Michael smiled. “Join the club.”

Jennifer banged her fist loud on the table. For an instant, the whole coffee shop went quiet. Heads turned in her direction. She turned her face into the shadows. The other customers realised nothing interesting was going on and went back to their conversations. But it got Michael and Otis’s attention.

“This is serious,” she said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Maybe it’s not that bad,” suggested Otis.

“It’s on the front cover of the skankin’ newspaper,” she said. “It’s all over the net, every media outlet from here to Timbuktu’s been calling me …”

“You want this demo to be big, right?” said Otis. He wasn’t just trying to cheer Jennifer up. Michael perceived he was excited about something.

“Well … yeah,” said Jennifer.

“Then this is great publicity,” he said.

“But it’s illegal, Otis. And I’m quoted as the organiser. I’ll probably be arrested or worse.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Jen. You’re cured already, you can afford to be the public face of perceivers.”

“Public face?” she said.

“Hear me out,” said Otis. “You said this story is everywhere, that journalists are calling you. Fantastic! Speak to them. Put our opinion out there. If you want this demonstration to show what teenagers feel, then this is your opportunity to do that.”

Michael was sandwiched between Otis’s excitement and Jennifer’s reticence.

“I don’t know,” she said.

But Michael thought Otis had a point. And he remembered Sian’s words at the train station, ‘the publicity will be good for Jennifer’. “I think you should do it,” said Michael.

“Really?” said Jennifer.

“Tell them what it’s like to be a perceiver,” he continued, “what it’s like to be cured against your will. If you don’t tell the truth, who else is going to?”

Jennifer thought about it and Michael perceived she was warming to the idea. He turned to Otis. Otis perceived it too.

“Turn your phone back on,” said Otis. “Start returning those journalists’ calls.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

NATASHA HILL LOOKED
up from her computer screen and turned to the camera: “Some news just in: we’re getting reports that a counter demonstration is planned against the teenage perceivers in London. With more, I’m joined by our Home Affairs Correspondent, Frank Maplefield …”

The image changed to a wide shot which showed Frank, in hastily tied blue tie clashing with his cream suit, sitting across the desk from the newsreader.

“Frank, what more do we know?”

“News is just coming in, as you say, Natasha, but it seems a demonstration is being organised in London at the same time as the teenage perceivers plan to march on Parliament. The announcement’s been made by Action Against Mind Invasion, who – as we know – are very much in favour of the normalisation of the teenage population.”

“Do we know what form this demonstration will take?” said Natasha.

“Not as yet, but it seems the AAMI want to show how much support there is for their side of the argument—”

“Can I just stop you there, Frank?” Natasha pressed her earpiece closer into her ear. “I think we can go to a statement from the AAMI now …”

The shot changed to somewhere outside and a close-up of a suburban front door. It was painted yellow with a number 27 in black lettering above the letterbox. The door opened.

Mrs Angelheart, in floral dress and thick make-up, emerged on the doorstep. “Thank you for coming,” she announced. She stepped onto her garden path. The microphones, photographers and old timers with trusty pen and paper rushed towards her, getting into the edge of shot. “I would like to confirm that Action Against Mind Invasion will be demonstrating its opposition to the rogue element of teenage perceivers who plan to gather in London on Monday—”

A caption rolled out across the bottom of the screen: Claudia Angelheart, President AAMI.

“—It is imperative that we show that the nation as a whole believes the cure is the right way to ensure harmony between the generations of this country. As such, I would encourage every parent, every teacher, every person who cares about the future to join with us as we petition Parliament. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. There will be more details on our website, AAMI dot …”

~

FROM HER POSITION
high on top of the Queen Victoria Memorial, the gilded statue of Victory looked down upon the teenagers. There were many, many of them: all around the monument and spilling out across the rusty red of the tarmac that surrounded her and onto the green of St James’s Park. At the side, forming a human barrier between the crowd and the gold-topped railings of Buckingham Palace, a line of uniformed police officers in stab vests watched them.

The blanket of teenagers stretched up the avenue that led away from the monument; stopping halfway in a wobbly line, like runners clustered at the start of the London Marathon. At the head of them was Jennifer Price, talking to a collection of journalists, TV cameras and fluffy microphones.

Several rows back, Michael hid behind a couple of taller teenagers. He had no intention of getting his face on the news. It was enough to be part of the crowd and soak up the feeling of so many people gathered together in a single cause. There was so much excitement, anticipation, trepidation and every other possible emotion, he couldn’t possibly block everything out. And so the melee of minds continued to buzz at the edge of his perception.

A couple of girls behind him started a chant: “
What do we abhor? We abhor the cure”
As they repeated it, more joined in, including Michael, who answered the question with all his heart, “
we abhor the cure
”. It was an amazing feeling, like he was truly part of something. The adrenaline as he shouted the same thing with everyone around him – magnified by a shared perception of their feelings – was unbelievably empowering.

As the chants continued, a portion of the crowd became out of synch. Some teenagers started to giggle. Others blew whistles in time to the rhythm, until it broke down in a cacophony of noise. It didn’t diminish their spirit. If anything, it enhanced it. They clapped and cheered and the whistles continued to blow.

Michael felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Otis standing next to him.

“It’s like a carnival!” shouted Otis over the noise.

“Where have you been?” said Michael.

A morning of difficulties were expressed in one single frown. “Police diverted the bus, I had to come round a different way.”