Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1) (12 page)

Michael’s turn. Step, step, slowly, step. Under the arch. Green light. Relief! He walked into the inner sanctum of the building.

Otis and Jennifer waited a distance from the lifts until one arrived and the crowd of suits in front of them crammed themselves into the metal box. The three of them watched as the lift doors closed again and took the suits away. Only then, when things were much quieter, did they step forward and press the button.

A second lift was there in seconds. Two metal jaws parted and allowed more grey-faced adults to tumble out onto the ground floor. Otis, Jennifer and Michael stepped into the emptied lift alone. Otis reached for the panel of buttons and hit the top number. A moment. The doors glided shut, enclosing them within the four metal walls. Then the lift jolted and started its ascent. Red electronic figures on the display above the doors counted up:
1 … 2 … 3
…
, each number ratcheting up Michael’s nervousness.

Jennifer giggled. Nerves.

“Jen …” Otis gave her a stern look.

“When the red light went on,” said Jennifer, “I thought that was it.”

“Arches don’t always detect the chip properly,” said Otis. “It’s a glitch.”

Otis focussed on the display:
4 … 5 … 6 …

“Are you sure we need to go to the top floor?” said Jennifer.

“All CEOs are on the top floor,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

Jennifer didn’t get an answer to her question because the lift jolted again. The display rested on
12
.

Michael felt a nervous cramp in his stomach.

Doors parted to reveal …

… a wall with a number twelve on it.

The three of them stepped out into an ordinary corridor.

Déjà vu struck Michael as sudden and painful as a bee sting. He staggered and fell sideways, putting his hand out on the wall to steady himself.

“Michael?” Jennifer’s voice quiet, but urgent.

“I know this place,” he said.

The brown carpet, the fluorescent lights, the partition walls and their glass doors that led into offices. Except, this time, the offices were not dark, but bright and occupied by office workers.

“What place?” said Jennifer.

“We shouldn’t have come here,” said Michael. “It’s the first place I remember. The place I ran away from.”

Otis took Michael roughly by the arm. “Sort yourself out,” he whispered in his ear, “you’ll get us noticed.”

Michael made a conscious effort to feel the solid floor at his feet and concentrate on every detail of that corridor that differed from the one he remembered. From the ringing of telephones and the indistinct chatter of workers, to the daylight spilling through the doors and the fact that this corridor seemed to be higher up than the one he remembered.

“You okay?” said Jennifer.

“I think so,” said Michael.

“You better be,” said Otis.

If nervous was what he’d felt inside the lift, then what he felt following Otis down the corridor was a hell of a lot worse. He was supposed to be there to help Otis and Jennifer find out about the cure clinics, not delve into his own past. It was what he wanted to know – of course! More than anything! – But he hadn’t been prepared to enter a carbon copy of the corridor; and the fear of walking along it grew with each step.

One of the office workers stepped out from behind a glass door and blocked their path. “Can I help you?” She wore a flowery blouse and a pair of black-rimmed glasses which made her eyes look wider as she glared suspiciously at them.

“Uh … yes actually,” said Jennifer, leaning out from behind Otis to give the woman a friendly smile. “We’ve got an appointment with Mr Ransom.”

“Really?” said the woman, doubtfully. She didn’t smile back.

“Yes.” Jennifer lifted the ID badge on her lapel and angled it towards her. “This is the right way, isn’t it?”

The woman narrowed her gaze and looked Jennifer up and down. “That’s right,” she said begrudgingly. “It’s the large office at the end. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” Jennifer moved past Otis and took the lead, striding up the corridor before the woman had a chance to question her again.

Michael risked a look back in her direction as they passed. She stood in the doorway, watching them for a moment, then went back inside her office.

At the end of the corridor was an ordinary office door. It was wedged open, allowing a little peek into a carpeted room. A dark blue Perspex sign embossed with white lettering read:
Mr Brian Ransom
.

Otis looked back at the others before taking a tentative step inside. Jennifer and Michael followed.

Inside was a kind of antechamber. A small, ordinary office with rudimentary furniture. A desk of light beech, cluttered with computer, printer, phone and a stack of papers. Probably an office for Ransom’s personal assistant. There was a chair, but no one sitting in it. No one home.

But, like walking into an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb, it was what lay beyond the antechamber that was amazing.

Behind the desk was a wall, four metres long, made entirely of glass. Even the door, apart from its brass handle and hinges, was made of glass. And, beyond that, a large executive office. Big bold furniture exuded status: from the large solid oak desk to the stout black leather chair that sat behind it. A sprawling sofa and armchair, also in black leather, set around a squat oak coffee table to allow for laid back meetings. At the far end, the London skyline could be seen through a giant window that ran the length of the office, including the distinctive dark glass cigar-shaped building everyone called
The Gherkin
. It was a breath-taking view.

The executive office, too, was empty.

“Ransom’s not here,” said Otis.

“Obviously!” said Jennifer.

There was a hint of concern on Otis’s face, but he dismissed it with a nod. “Probably at lunch. He’ll be back soon. We’ll wait.”

Otis reached for the handle of the glass door.

“You’re not going in?” Michael said, his stomach starting to twist again.

“Best place to wait,” said Otis. He turned the handle and led them inside.

The first thing Michael noticed was the feeling of space. Not just because the office was large, but because the glass window made it seem part of London. Michael approached and stared out at the rooftop view. Ancient and modern buildings were squeezed, higgledy-piggledy, in between each other; their brick, concrete and stone shapes standing tall and short against the off-white cloud of the autumn sky.

Otis paced the office, impatient and nervous.

Jennifer sat in the armchair. She laid back into the cushions without inhibitions. “Otis, will you sit down? You’ll wear out the carpet.”

Otis sighed and did what she asked, perching his buttocks on the edge of the sofa, as if he knew he didn’t really belong there.

“Whose brilliant idea was it to come at lunchtime?” said Jennifer. It was a rhetorical question, as all three of them knew it was Otis who came up with the plan.

“Easier to blend in,” said Otis. “More people coming and going.”

“Including, apparently, Brian Ransom,” said Jennifer.

Michael turned away from the skyline and rested his back on the windowsill. “Why was I here?” he said. “Why is my first memory before I ran, being in these offices?”

“Are you sure?” said Jennifer. “Offices can look pretty much the same.”

“Not that corridor,” said Michael. “This means … I don’t know what it means.”

“It means we can add a few more questions to the list we want to ask him,” said Jennifer. She sighed, got up from the armchair and walked over to Ransom’s desk.

“Jennifer, leave that alone,” said Otis.

“I’m just taking a look.” She sat on the executive chair. Its sophisticated suspension bounced under her body weight.

“Jen, they’ll chuck us out for snooping.”

“Three teenagers with forged security passes in the boss’s office?” she snorted. “Likelihood is, they’re gonna chuck us out anyway. I think we should have a snoop around first.”

The desk was neat with computer, keyboard and old-fashioned bound A4 diary laid out precisely as if ready for inspection. Only a coffee mug with a few millimetres of cold, brown liquid left in the bottom and a framed family photograph beside the computer monitor suggested the desk belonged to a real person.

Michael watched as Jennifer struck the space bar of the computer keyboard and the monitor flickered into life. It asked for a password to log on.

“Hmm,” said Jennifer, doubtfully. She turned her attention to the diary and flicked through page after page. “Meeting … meeting … doctor’s appointment … meeting.” She shut the diary. “God, could this guy be more boring?”

She moved on to a stack of drawers under the desk. She pulled the handle of the first one. It rattled against a lock and wouldn’t open. But the second slid open without objection. Inside was a collection of cardboard files. Jennifer pulled out the files and slapped them on the table. She leant forward to look, but something else caught her eye. She reached for the framed family photograph on the desk and pulled it close. She studied it.

Michael didn’t understand. It was just a photo. A man, a woman and a child of about thirteen, presumably their son. He recognised the man as Ransom from his publicity photo. Otherwise, it was an unremarkable picture of people smiling into the camera.

Jennifer turned to Michael. She looked at him with the intensity of a perceiver. He felt her burrowing. Then she turned back to the photo.

“What is it, Jen?” said Otis, approaching.

“Michael, is this you?” She pointed to the boy in the photograph.

Michael went cold. The boy in the picture stared back at him like the image in a warped mirror. A little chubbier than him, a little happier than him, face a little more boyish than his, hair a little shorter than his – but still familiar. In every real sense, the boy’s features – eyes, lips, wide-bridged nose, the shape of his chin and ears – were the same.

Otis leant over the desk and snatched the photo from Jennifer.

“Hey!” said Michael. Wanting the picture for himself. Wanting to look closer. Wanting to hide it.

But Otis saw. His gaze flicked from Michael to the picture and back again. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. They all knew what it meant.

The office door opened. Jennifer gasped. Otis turned to look. Michael ducked down behind the desk.

“What’s going on in here?” A female voice. Angry. Part of him wanted to peek out over the desk, but common sense told him to stay where he was, to crunch up his body until it was the smallest it could be.

“We were looking for Mr Ransom.” Jennifer’s voice.

“Yeah, Mr Ransom,” Otis chimed in.

“Well, he’s not here,” said the woman, stern like a schoolteacher.

“Which is why we’d thought we’d wait,” said Jennifer, just a hint of nervousness underneath her fake naivety.

“I’m going to call security to escort you out. All three of you,” said the woman.

Michael tensed. Held his breath. Closed his eyes to pretend he wasn’t there.

“Yes, I know there’s another one of you hiding behind the desk,” she said. “Come out now.”

Michael didn’t want to. He wanted to stay hidden.

“I can get security to drag you out.”

He let out the breath he was holding. There was no use pretending any more. He uncurled his body and stood up, revealing himself to the woman. And seeing her for the first time.

She was tall, slim and neat, with long brown hair pinned back behind her ears. She wore a crisp blouse of navy blue with white pinstripes, and straight black trousers. Her familiar face quickened his heart. He looked into her eyes and she looked into his and recognition passed between them.

“Doctor Page,” said Michael.

Jennifer spun round to look at him. “Doctor Page? From the clinic?”

Unbelievable. But unmistakable.

“Michael,” breathed Page. “God, Michael! What are you doing here?”

She turned to a panel of switches on the wall beside the door and flicked the top row with one swipe of her hand. The windows went suddenly dark, like someone had turned off the day. In an instant, the glass was black. The London skyline and the antechamber were hidden and the office was instantly bathed in artificial light from halogen bulbs blazing from the ceiling.

“What did you do?” said Jennifer.

“Wow,” said Otis. “It’s that special glass, Jen. The stuff with liquid crystal inside it that turns black when electric current runs through it.”

Page ignored him. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“We have questions for Mr Ransom,” said Jennifer.

“Naïve little children. Just because you’re perceivers, you think you can come in here and take whatever you want?”

Otis stepped forward. The fact that she had correctly identified them as perceivers clearly wasn’t lost on him. “What the skank’s going on? Who the hell are you?”

He stood directly in front of her. In her heels, she easily matched his height, but he had the bulk and power to physically outrank her. It did nothing to intimidate her. “I’m Rachel Page. Brian Ransom’s assistant.”

“No.” Michael came out from behind the desk. “You’re Doctor Page. You work at the clinic.”

“Oh, Michael.” She sidestepped Otis and went up to Michael. She looked into him. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

He only remembered the clinic and the way she had hugged him.

“Hey!” Otis put his hand on Page’s shoulder and spun her back to face him. “I asked you what’s going on.”

Then – suddenly – Otis let go of her shoulder. Like she was diseased. He stepped away, his face ashen. “God,” he said to himself. “Oh my God.”

“Otis?” said Jennifer.

“Can’t you ’ceive it, Jen? She’s a perceiver. An adult perceiver.”

“That’s not possible,” said Jennifer, concentrating on the woman, her expression blank as she looked into her mind. Then she dropped her head and looked away. Her hand felt for the desk to support her. “It can’t be right …”

“So you know,” said Page. “Had to happen one day, I suppose. I hope I can rely on your discretion.”

“Lady, you can’t rely on skank,” said Otis. “Not till we get some answers.”