Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1) (27 page)

Otis had his phone in his palm displaying a news site. Michael craned his neck to see:
Thousands of Perceivers Gather for Demo
, said the headline. It was remarkable to think only a few days ago, perceivers who feared the cure had hidden their identity from others. Now they were standing together with one voice for everyone to see.

Some of them started to chant: “
Ten … nine … eight …
”

“What’s going on?” Michael shouted over the noise.

“We’re setting off at one,” said Otis. He showed Michael his phone, its clock counting down the seconds. Otis joined in: “
Five … four
…”

Michael too – and everyone around him: “
Three … two … ONE!
”

Cheers erupted. Those at the head of the crowd started to move forward. Like a ripple on the water played in slow motion, the movement flowed back through the assembled mass. Space opened up in front of them and they were walking – marching – away from St James’s Park, around to Birdcage Walk and towards Parliament Square.

Ahead, Michael could see Jennifer’s long sleek hair and the thin body. She thrust her fist in the air as she cried out: “
What do we want?
”

The crowd replied: “
We want a choice!
”

‘
What do we want to be?
’

In unison, fists punching: “
We want to be ourselves!
”

Even from behind, she looked magnificent. She was out on her own now. The press had disappeared, off to file their stories, ring their editors or whatever it is the press do. The police kept a respectful distance at the sides of the marchers, walking like sheepdogs keeping an eye on their flock.

Michael and Otis made their way through the crowd to meet Jennifer at the front.

“Otis!” she cried with glee as soon as she saw him.

“Look what you did!” said Otis, waving his arm out behind to indicate all her followers.

“It’s amazing,” she said.

Otis looked at his phone. “Police say we’ve got two thousand here – that’s a lie, there must be at least four.”

“What about the other demo?”

Otis ran his finger over his phone. “Pretty big turnout for Mrs Devilkidney’s lot,” he said.

Jennifer giggled. “Angelheart,” she corrected and peered across at the news site on his phone. “Do you think their protest takes away from what we’re doing?”

“No skankin’ way,” said Otis. He pocketed his phone and raised his fist: “
What do we want?
”

Jennifer smiled: “We want a choice!” she shouted, along with everyone around her.

“
What do we want to be?
”

“
We want to be ourselves!
”

They kept walking. Stretched out down the path, with the traffic of Birdcage Walk to their right, the leafless winter trees stretching up to the sky to their left, and the spacious green of the park beyond. On normal days it must be a tranquil place to walk through. But not that Monday. Any tranquillity it had was chased away by the noise of thousands of teenagers’ footsteps, voices and whistles.

As they approached the end of Birdcage Walk, the iconic tower of Westminster, with its gold-edged clock face housing Big Ben, appeared from behind the buildings on the right of the street. Jennifer strode forward towards the target with renewed confidence.

But Otis was hesitant. He nudged Michael’s elbow and pointed ahead. “What’s that?”

Where the line of trees stopped, the park ended and the road led into the bustle of Westminster, stood a line of figures in black and white.

“Police,” said Michael.

Officers in black stab vests over white shirts lined up to block their path. Behind them, risen up on horseback, were half a dozen mounted police.

Jennifer slowed her pace. “What’s going on?” she asked Otis.

He ran his fingers over his phone. He shook his head. “Dunno.”

Behind him, loud worried conversations broke out.

“We need to stop them,” she said. And, without missing a beat, she jumped out in front of the crowd and raised her hands aloft. “Stop!” she cried.

Her single voice was virtually lost among the noise of several thousand people, but a few at the front – already uneasy – came to a halt.

Otis – his body bigger and more impressive – also jumped out in front of the crowd. “Stop!” He went up and down the line urging everyone to stay where they were.

The marchers bunched up into a huddle. A policeman broke free from the line and walked towards them. Jennifer met him halfway.

They talked.

Michael wanted to perceive them, but with so many people around, it was impossible to filter them out. He couldn’t hear them either and so was reduced to looking at their body language which suggested a fierce discussion was going on.

Jennifer ran back to join the marchers. People clustered around her. “They’re not letting us into Parliament Square,” she said.

“What?” said Otis.

“I thought you agreed the route with them,” said Michael.

“So did I,” said Jennifer. “The AAMI demo’s gone off the agreed route. The police want to divert us up Horse Guards Road.”

Otis consulted his phone and pulled up a road map of the area. “That’s basically a walk around the edge of the park. No way. Jen, you gotta tell ’em, there’s no way.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?!” she said.

Otis typed something on his phone.

Michael put his hand between Otis’s fingers and the screen. “What are you doing?”

“Posting to the group,” he said.

“Otis, no,” said Jennifer. “Police don’t want trouble.”

“That’s exactly what they’re gonna get if people don’t know why we’ve stopped,” said Otis.

Michael removed his hand and Otis sent his message. Within minutes, everyone knew. Knowledge spread through the crowd in a hail of bleeping phones and raised voices. The buzz at the edge of Michael’s perception turned to disquiet. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

Otis tapped Michael on the shoulder. He showed him a live newsfeed being streamed to his phone. Video of Mrs Angelheart, in a vibrant red coat, leading a swarm of adults across Westminster Bridge played on the screen.
AAMI diverts from agreed demonstration route
… read the words scrolling along the bottom …
Marchers now heading for Parliament Square: clash with rival perceivers demo feared
…

The video switched to a graphic of a map. It showed that Mrs Angelheart and her gang of vigilante followers had – instead of turning to walk along the embankment of the River Thames after crossing the bridge – continued straight down Bridge Street, which took them directly into Parliament Square.

Michael grabbed the phone to look closer. The site was being updated as he read …
unconfirmed reports say sympathisers within the police may have allowed them to take the detour, forcing colleagues to stop the perceivers in their tracks …

The tension around him was building. Most of the teenagers were probably looking up the same news site.

A couple of perceivers broke out from the ranks. Followed – spontaneously – by another dozen. Charging like hooligans towards the police line. The police officers who had quietly flanked them since leaving the park rushed in to stop them getting as far as the cordon. They caught a couple of protestors: one by the arms, pulling him back so his limbs flailed helplessly; another by the hood of her top, swinging her round; another slipping from the officer’s grasp and running free.

As many as ten made it and ran head-long towards the police cordon.

Jennifer turned – panicked – “You’ve got to post for everyone to be calm.”

Otis instantly typed, but the time for appeals had passed.

From somewhere Michael didn’t see, the police pulled riot shields. They formed a plastic barricade between them and the protestors. The ten who’d made it through, bounced off the riot shields like tiny children bouncing off the wall of an inflatable castle.

Others ran to join them. Suddenly Jennifer, Otis and Michael were standing in a sea of running and shouting teenagers. Some rushing towards the cordon, others simply trying to get out of the way.

“What do we do?” said Jennifer, still panicking.

Otis clutched his phone, scrolling through screen after screen. “This is bad.”

“What?” Jennifer grabbed it off him. She read. Michael didn’t need to perceive her to know she agreed with Otis’s assessment. Her face turned ashen. She let the phone hang limp. Michael took it from her.

Anonymous posts urged people to rush the police line. Several others suggested possible ways round the cordon.

“We need to go,” said Otis.

He didn’t wait for an answer from Jennifer. He ran back the way they had come and, within seconds, he was lost in the crowd.

“Should we follow him?” said Jennifer.

In that moment, she looked like a little girl again. Her magnificence destroyed by the same crowd who had given it to her.

Michael shrugged. “Probably not, but let’s do it anyway.”

They charged into the crowd. Dodging the other protestors, until they saw a mop of shocking blond hair bobbing in and out of view. They followed.

The crowd thickened and, steadily, Otis’s pace slowed. The teenagers had formed a bottleneck at a turning where at least a hundred of them were trying to get through a gap capable of taking no more than half a dozen at a time. Michael clasped Jennifer’s hand and pushed his way through. He trod on somebody’s foot.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

But kept pushing until they were up alongside Otis. “What’s going on?” Michael asked him.

Otis shouted over the excited voices of the crowd: “We’re going to march on Parliament whether the police want us to or not!”

“
Yeah! Yeah!
” cheered the crowd in reply. They were carried along by the pressure of bodies pushing against them as Michael perceived a confusion of emotions: the thrill of out-smarting the police, the unity of acting all together, the anxiety and excitement of knowing they were breaking the law, and the panic of some stuck in the middle.

Eventually, the bottleneck widened out into Old Queen’s Street. Teenagers spilled out over the paths and the road. A car behind them bibbed its horn, but no one got out of the way. There was the sense of determination now.

Tens of posts on Otis’s phone had worked out the same route: turn right at the end, down Storey’s Gate, left onto Victoria Street and all the way up to Parliament Square.

They were marching again. From somewhere in the midst of the crowd, a couple of people started off the chant again. “
What do we abhor?
”

Michael joined in: “We abhor the cure!”

The chant continued, but Michael saw Otis and Jennifer weren’t taking part. Otis passed his phone to Jennifer.

“What’s up?” said Michael.

“The AAMI—” His voice was drowned out.

‘
We abhor the cure!
’

“What?”

“Angelheart’s lot,” Otis shouted above the noise. “They’re already in Parliament Square.”

“
What do we want? … We want a choice!
” rang out as they walked past the gothic carved stone of Westminster Abbey.

“
What do want to be? … We want to be ourselves
.”

Visible ahead was the majesty of the Palace of Westminster – the heart of Parliament. The minute hand of the clock face marked half past one and the deep tones of the quarter bells sounded underneath the chanting.

Pressure pushed in on Michael’s mind. He staggered sideways and knocked into Otis.

“You all right?”

“Can you perceive that?” said Michael.

“What?”

Michael put his hand to his head. So many minds. So disparate. So much anger and hatred. He’d been concentrating for more than an hour to keep the crowds out of his head and he was starting to fatigue. He looked around. None of the others seemed to be affected. “It’s so strong.”

“What are you talking about?” said Otis.

“Forget it,” said Michael. He remembered his father in the cell, the cocoon of his perception surrounding and protecting him. Michael tried to draw on some of that strength to ward off the migraine that tore at his consciousness.

The marchers stopped. Coming to a halt like a row of traffic braking at the approach to an accident.

“What’s going on?” said Jennifer. Her words echoed by the mumbles of confused voices around them.

Otis took his phone back from her and scrolled through screen after screen. “Dunno. No one’s posting.”

“It’s Angelheart and the AAMI,” said Michael. “I can perceive it.”

“You can’t possibly perceive that!” said Otis.

But Michael could, he just didn’t want to explain to Otis it was because he was stronger than him. “They’re in Parliament Square,” he said. “Thousands of them.”

“Let’s find out the old-fashioned way,” said Jennifer. “Let’s go see.”

She ducked under elbows and slid through tiny gaps between teenagers to weasel her way through the crowd towards the front. It was harder for Michael – and especially Otis – who weren’t as lithe as her and had to push their way through. As they neared the front, the sound of an amplified female voice rumbled through the air, her words indistinct.

Michael scrambled through the last of the teenage protestors to join Jennifer at the head of the crowd. Otis emerged moments later. They were faced with another line of police officers; standing shoulder to shoulder at the entrance to Parliament Square. Behind them, a wide circular road humming with traffic – mostly taxis – enclosed a mass of adults. The adults stood on a large square of grass, overlooked by the historic buildings which had been the home to the rulers of Britain for centuries.

Most were looking ahead, towards the sound of the amplified voice, others stared at the teenagers. Even through Michael’s mental barriers, he could feel them and their hatred. It was horrific to have hundreds of people standing in front of them, feeling how they despised people like him.

“What now?” said Michael.

Jennifer and Otis didn’t get a chance to answer before a teenager shouted: “Get out the way!” towards the police.