Mind Control: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 2) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jane Killick
Tags: science fiction telepathy, young adult scifi adventure
Sanderson.”
Michael flashed an apologetic look to Pauline. Sorry , he thought.
He wasn’t sure if she was perceiving him and heard his message, but he couldn’t stay to make sure. He walked out of the room and into the corridor where Norm watched him until he was back in his own room with the door closed.
As he crawled back into bed, Pauline’s thoughts continued to play in the background, but they were calmer and less intrusive than they were. Maybe his interrupted lesson had helped a little. He erected his own blocks to bring quiet to his mind and, despite a few moments where they weakened and allowed the images of Pauline’s dreams to slip back in, he was able to drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
MICHAEL WAS FURIOUS when he came out of his debrief. Agent Cooper had listened to everything he had to say about perceiving his first suspect with the Metropolitan Police, but wasn’t interested in any of his suggestions. Michael wanted to say that it would be better if he could pass information to the police interrogator while the interview was taking place, perhaps through an earpiece, so he could be of more benefit to the investigating team. But Cooper wouldn’t hear any of it and said that, at this early stage, it was important for him to observe only and report back. That’s how the police wanted it and that’s how it was going to be until the assignment was over and an assessment was made.
Michael had already spent an hour before the meeting carrying out punishment duty picking up litter in the grounds, thanks to Norm the Norm, so it wasn’t the best start to his day.
~
IT WAS MID-MORNING by the time Michael arrived at the police station. He found Detective Inspector Graham Jones in his office, glaring at his computer as he scrolled with a mouse on his desk. He was Patterson’s boss, older than his sergeant by about ten years, displaying his seniority with the way he dressed in a smart suit of uncrinkled sober grey with a tie knotted all the way to his neck. His thinning hair, which would probably leave him virtually bald within the next five years, was clipped short and combed back. His tidiness was reflected in his desk which, apart from a stray pen by his computer keyboard, was free of clutter. The only personal touch was a framed photograph of his younger-looking self, when his hair was thick and dark, shaking the hand of a man in police uniform, probably a chief inspector of some sort.
After a few moments hovering at the open door without being noticed, Michael gave it a gentle knock. Jones raised his eyes briefly to see who it was and Michael perceived a wave of indifference. He stepped inside, reeling off his prepared apology, but stopped when he realised Jones wasn’t paying any attention.
“He committed suicide,” said Jones. He sat back in his chair and looked directly up at Michael.
“What?” said Michael. Not that he didn’t hear, more that he didn’t understand.
“Jerome Tyler,” said Jones. “Came back from hospital: hung himself.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know.” Jones shook his head. “There’ll be an investigation and I’ll have the IPCC on my tail. Maybe I should have put him on suicide watch … Did you ‘perceive’ anything from him. I mean, was he suicidal?”
“No,” said Michael. “He wasn’t anything, really. His mind was strange, detached, almost empty. The only thing in his head was a desperate desire to get on the number 10 bus. If that’s any help.”
Someone knocked on the door behind him. Michael had his filters closed in the busy police station and hadn’t sensed someone approach. It was Sergeant Anthony Patterson, looking even more haggard than the previous day, and now wearing a crumpled black suit instead of a crumpled grey one. Michael stepped aside to allow him in and Patterson took his place without acknowledging Michael was there. “A call’s come in,” Patterson told Jones. “Might be nothing, could be something.
Michael flashed an apologetic look to Pauline. Sorry , he thought.
He wasn’t sure if she was perceiving him and heard his message, but he couldn’t stay to make sure. He walked out of the room and into the corridor where Norm watched him until he was back in his own room with the door closed.
As he crawled back into bed, Pauline’s thoughts continued to play in the background, but they were calmer and less intrusive than they were. Maybe his interrupted lesson had helped a little. He erected his own blocks to bring quiet to his mind and, despite a few moments where they weakened and allowed the images of Pauline’s dreams to slip back in, he was able to drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
MICHAEL WAS FURIOUS when he came out of his debrief. Agent Cooper had listened to everything he had to say about perceiving his first suspect with the Metropolitan Police, but wasn’t interested in any of his suggestions. Michael wanted to say that it would be better if he could pass information to the police interrogator while the interview was taking place, perhaps through an earpiece, so he could be of more benefit to the investigating team. But Cooper wouldn’t hear any of it and said that, at this early stage, it was important for him to observe only and report back. That’s how the police wanted it and that’s how it was going to be until the assignment was over and an assessment was made.
Michael had already spent an hour before the meeting carrying out punishment duty picking up litter in the grounds, thanks to Norm the Norm, so it wasn’t the best start to his day.
~
IT WAS MID-MORNING by the time Michael arrived at the police station. He found Detective Inspector Graham Jones in his office, glaring at his computer as he scrolled with a mouse on his desk. He was Patterson’s boss, older than his sergeant by about ten years, displaying his seniority with the way he dressed in a smart suit of uncrinkled sober grey with a tie knotted all the way to his neck. His thinning hair, which would probably leave him virtually bald within the next five years, was clipped short and combed back. His tidiness was reflected in his desk which, apart from a stray pen by his computer keyboard, was free of clutter. The only personal touch was a framed photograph of his younger-looking self, when his hair was thick and dark, shaking the hand of a man in police uniform, probably a chief inspector of some sort.
After a few moments hovering at the open door without being noticed, Michael gave it a gentle knock. Jones raised his eyes briefly to see who it was and Michael perceived a wave of indifference. He stepped inside, reeling off his prepared apology, but stopped when he realised Jones wasn’t paying any attention.
“He committed suicide,” said Jones. He sat back in his chair and looked directly up at Michael.
“What?” said Michael. Not that he didn’t hear, more that he didn’t understand.
“Jerome Tyler,” said Jones. “Came back from hospital: hung himself.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know.” Jones shook his head. “There’ll be an investigation and I’ll have the IPCC on my tail. Maybe I should have put him on suicide watch … Did you ‘perceive’ anything from him. I mean, was he suicidal?”
“No,” said Michael. “He wasn’t anything, really. His mind was strange, detached, almost empty. The only thing in his head was a desperate desire to get on the number 10 bus. If that’s any help.”
Someone knocked on the door behind him. Michael had his filters closed in the busy police station and hadn’t sensed someone approach. It was Sergeant Anthony Patterson, looking even more haggard than the previous day, and now wearing a crumpled black suit instead of a crumpled grey one. Michael stepped aside to allow him in and Patterson took his place without acknowledging Michael was there. “A call’s come in,” Patterson told Jones. “Might be nothing, could be something.