Mind Control: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 2) (28 page)

The barman’s blade got closer.

Michael leapt from the wall – his head bent forward like a human battering ram – and charged at the barman. Still in Hetherington’s control and unable to react like a thinking person, the barman took the full force of Michael’s attack. He dropped the knife and its blade pinged to the floor as it tumbled across the tiles.

The barman stumbled backwards.

Michael ran forward full pelt and charged again. But the barman had stumbled over the invisible line and Michael’s chain pulled him up short; the handcuff cutting into his wrist. His unchained hand swiped at air as the barman stood safely out of reach.

Hetherington continued to watch with an unwavering smile.

Infuriated, Michael realised he had been attacking the puppet when his real enemy was the puppet master. He swung round with all his anger and uselessly screamed his frustration like a chained dog barking at an intruder. Hetherington was out of reach. They were all out of reach. The puppet master, his puppet and the knife.

The knife.

On the floor where it had been knocked from the barman’s hand.

Michael focussed on the knife. It twitched. Almost unable to believe it, he watched its metal blade tinkling on the tile in the control of his mind. Taking a breath – quick before Hetherington noticed – he concentrated his rage, frustration and fear in a blast of raw emotion.

The knife lifted from the floor and flew like a spear across the room. It struck Hetherington’s chest with a thud.

Hetherington cried out and clasped his breast where the blade had imbedded itself between the bones of his rib cage. The boy’s blocks faltered and Michael perceived his shock and pain for a moment before he regained control. Blood wept through his shirt onto his fingers as they clustered around the wound. He staggered on his feet, but he did not go down. His eyes stared wide and crazed.

Hetherington launched his perception at Michael’s mind. He rammed it hard against his blocks. Michael fought to keep him out as he remembered how such an onslaught had nearly killed his father. But Hetherington’s anger had made him strong and Michael struggled to hold on.

“Michael!” Ransom called out from somewhere behind him. But his father could be of no help.

A sudden noise cracked the air.

The mental onslaught ceased.

Hetherington’s body jerked forward: hit from behind by something invisible.

Another shot rang out. Hetherington spasmed again. With the third one, he collapsed. Sinking to his knees, he held onto life for one last moment before he stopped breathing and fell face down onto the floor. On his back were three red circles made by the bullets that had killed him.

The barman, still standing, wavered without the control of his puppet master. Blood spurted from his chest: once, twice, three times, as he was shot in quick succession. He collapsed back against the wall and slid down it, leaving behind bright red smears on the white paintwork.

The sounds of gunfire echoing in his head, Michael looked to the doorway, expecting to see his Russian execution squad.

But what he saw was so incredible he wasn’t sure it was true.

Hodges, a semi-automatic pistol clasped in his fingers, stood in front of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX

MICHAEL PERCEIVED THE
warm, familiar mind of his driver and almost wept at the gloriousness of it. He dropped every barrier, every filter in his head and drank in the sweet presence of Hodges. Even then, he had to use his eyes to confirm it. Hodges looked less groomed than usual, there was stubble on his chin from where he hadn’t shaved that morning and his jeans, jumper and flak jacket made him look more like a civilian than the suit he usually wore, but it was him. It really was him.

The only fear left in the room came from his father. Michael turned to see Ransom crouching by the radiator, reeling from the gunfire.

“It’s okay, Dad,” said Michael. “This is Mr Hodges. He’s a former British soldier. He’s my friend.”

Ransom relaxed, even though Michael could sense that, inside, he was still shaking.

The sense of other familiar minds filled Michael’s perception. Immediately he knew who they were.

Pauline came in from the corridor and stopped short as she reached the doorway. “My God!” she breathed.

Alex came up behind her. He said nothing, but Michael perceived he was just as sickened at what he saw.

That’s when Michael looked around the room and realised what a shit hole they had walked into. Hetherington’s dead body lay face down in a pool of his own blood, the barman’s lifeless body was slumped against the blood-splattered wall, and Ransom sat in filthy, crumpled clothes. Michael realised he must look equally pathetic.

“Are you all right?” said Alex.

Michael touched his own torso and assessed himself. No bullet holes, no knife wounds, he was physically in one piece. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. How did you find us?”

“This one was worried when you ran off,” said Hodges, pointing to Pauline. “She got me to talk to your policeman friend. He traced the payments you made to the airline and the hotel. The hotel was able to tell us which taxi driver you used and he directed us to—”

“Can we talk about this later?” said Ransom, pulling himself to his feet. “We need to get out of here.”

“Don’t worry,” said Hodges. “I’ve got the hire car outside, it’s less than an hour’s drive to the British embassy.”

“What about …?” Ransom pulled at his chain and the other end rattled against the radiator.

“Keys!” said Michael. “Check the barman’s pockets.”

Alex stepped past Pauline and knelt at the body of the unfortunate barman slumped on the floor with his dead eyes still open. Alex slipped his hands into the barman’s front pockets, but found nothing. He reached round the man’s back to get into his rear pockets. The barman fell sideways and his skull struck the floor with a hollow thump. Alex gasped and pulled his hands away. But the dead man had only moved through the force of gravity and, after catching his breath, Alex continued his search.

He found no keys on the barman. He checked Hetherington too, but stood up from the body with his hands empty.

“They must be in the building somewhere,” said Michael.

“We haven’t got time to check,” said Hodges. “The few people who were here ran off when they saw the gun, but they must have alerted someone by now and I don’t fancy my chances in a shoot-out with armed Russian police.”

“But backup’s on its way?” said Ransom.

“Unfortunately not,” said Hodges. “This isn’t exactly an ‘official’ operation.”

Alex went up to the radiator and pulled at the chains where they were locked by a handcuff. “Could you shoot them off?” he asked Hodges.

“Even if I could be that accurate, there’s no guarantee a bullet could cut through the chain. That’s if it doesn’t ricochet and kill one of us first.”

A sense of panic was manifesting in the room. All the perceivers could feel it, while Hodges was trying to keep himself calm so he could think.

“We can’t leave them!” said Pauline.

“We need bolt cutters or something,” said Hodges. “Stay here.”

Michael only had a chance to perceive that he was going out to the car before Hodges was gone.

“He can’t have bolt cutters in the car, surely,” said Pauline.

“Knowing Hodges, I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Michael.

Quiet descended as they waited for Hodges to return. Michael realised he was shaking from the after-effects of an adrenaline surge. He decided to sit on the floor before his legs collapsed from under him.

“Are you okay?” said Pauline.

“I’m just pleased to see you,” he said. “Really, really pleased to see both of you.”

“Are these your perceiver friends?” asked Ransom.

“Yes,” said Michael. “Pauline and Alex.”

“Natural born?” said Ransom.

“I think your pills created them,” said Michael.

The three of them didn’t have time to think about what that meant because Hodges came back carrying a tyre iron.

He held the metal lever aloft like a sword of victory as the others wondered what he was going to do with it. “We should be able to break the cuffs off the radiator with this,” he explained. “If that doesn’t work, I’m going to prise the entire radiator off the wall and take the whole bloody lot, with you two attached to it, back to the British embassy.”

CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN

MICHAEL HAD WAITED
for an hour in the London drizzle outside the Old Bailey to get a place on the front bench of the public gallery. Many of the people pressed in close on the benches around him had also braved the British weather to make sure they witnessed Brian Ransom being sent down for his crimes, and so the courtroom was full of the smell of damp clothes and hair.

The public were kept safely behind the brass railing atop the balustrade at the back of the court, but the anger and vindictiveness of their minds spilled out everywhere. Their hatred for his father pressed in on Michael’s mind so forcefully that it hurt. He could have shut them out, but he wanted to feel every moment.

Pauline’s fingers intertwined with his. Her hand felt warm and comforting as she sat by his side. Michael knew his own hand felt clammy with sweat, but he perceived she didn’t care.

“All rise,” said a court official from down below.

A collection of barristers in black robes and horsehair wigs stood in unison, like an army regiment brought to attention. Around him, Michael perceived the uncertainty of people in the public gallery wondering if they were supposed to stand up too. A man next to him in the front row did, followed by a woman behind him, and then the rest of them who got to their feet in ones and twos.

Standing made it easier to see Ransom in the dock. He looked respectable in his new suit, neatly washed and brushed hair, and trimmed beard. None of which stopped the nervousness leaking from his mind.

At the front of the court, an oak wood door set into the oak panelling of the wall opened and the judge entered. It was the same woman Michael had seen before, in wig and gown, looking diminutive in contrast to the amount of power she wielded.

She sat down.

The barristers sat as one.

The people crammed into the public gallery realised they should do the same and sat down in ones and twos.

“Remain standing, Mr Ransom,” said the judge.

Michael perched on the edge of the bench and leant forward. He ignored the sign on the wall that told members of the public gallery not to lean over the rail.

The judge lifted her gaze from a folder of papers on the desk in front of her and looked directly at Ransom. “The prosecution alleges thousands of women and children were your victims, but in sentencing you I can only take account of the twenty cases placed before this court and for which the jury found you guilty,” she said. “The charge of Administering a Noxious Substance with Intent to Cause Bodily Harm comes with a maximum sentence of five years’ imprisonment. Given the severity of your crime, Mr Ransom, I have no hesitation in sentencing you to five years for each and every count, to be served consecutively. Giving you a total jail term of one hundred years.”

The shock, Michael perceived, struck Ransom as hard as a punch. It knocked him dizzy and he stumbled sideways. The security guard next to him caught his arm.

An excited and vengeful thrill poured from the minds in the public gallery. “I hope you rot!” yelled one woman.

Michael gripped Pauline’s hand tighter as he forced himself to keep perceiving. He was frightened that if he blocked out other people’s feelings, he would have to face his own.

“Under British law, I cannot pass such a sentence,” continued the judge, raising her voice above the disquiet which had also broken out among the stunned barristers in front of her. “However, due to the unprecedented nature of your crimes, Brian Christopher Ransom, I have no hesitation in commuting it to a full life term, meaning you will spend the rest of your days in prison without the prospect of parole. Take him away.”

The security guard, already holding onto Ransom’s arm, led him to exit the dock.

Michael grabbed the rail and leant out as far as he could.
Dad!
screamed his mind.

His father looked up from below as the security guard placed the metal jaws of a handcuff around his wrist.
Don’t worry
, said Ransom’s thoughts.
It’s better than being a prisoner in Russia
.

I’ll visit you!

Don’t. You need to live your life and forget about me
.

“No!” The word screamed from his lungs as he leant further out over the rail. Pauline grabbed his T-shirt to pull him back and stop him falling, but he didn’t relent until his father was led from the court and so far away that his mind could no longer reach him.

~

MICHAEL GRIPPED TIGHT
to Pauline’s hand all the way out of the court. They didn’t say anything, they didn’t have to, as they perceived each other’s thoughts and feelings with every step.

Emerging into the street, they saw the sun had broken through the morning cloud and started to dry the damp remnants of drizzle from the pavement. Anyone else might have felt the day was brightening up, but the sun brought no warmth to Michael.

Just outside the public entrance to the Old Bailey, leaning against the pole of a parking restriction sign, was Sergeant Patterson. He wore the same grey crumpled suit he had worn that first day in the interrogation room.

Michael self-consciously untangled his hand from Pauline’s fingers.

Patterson held up an arm to catch their already-caught attention and the three of them met in the middle of the pavement. “Hello,” he said.

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” said Michael.

“I tried to call you,” said Patterson. “But I couldn’t get through to your phone.”

“I lost it in Russia.”

“How many phones have you lost now?”

“Just the two.”

“Who’s this?” said Pauline.

Michael knew she knew who it was, as she could perceive it from both of them, but norms liked to hear themselves be introduced using actual words. So Michael obliged. “This is Sergeant Anthony Patterson,” he said.