Mind Control: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 2) by Jane Killick Page A
Authors: Jane Killick
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another, but Rublev did not sense Michael until he reached the side of his bed.
The man’s thoughts coalesced into recognising the world around him. “Sergeant Patterson’s friend,” he croaked in a whisper just loud enough to be heard over the air conditioning.
“Sorry we couldn’t come sooner,” said Michael. “Sergeant Patterson is investigating the terrorist bombing at the Capital Hotel.”
“I heard,” said Rublev, struggling with each syllable. “Why do young people want to throw their lives away when there are so many others desperate to hang onto life?”
Rublev gasped for air, his throat rasping as it forced life-giving oxygen into his lungs. Rublev knew, in his mind, that talking strained his body and he accepted the coughing fit that followed, shaking the bed as the spasming momentarily blocked his ability to breathe.
Michael perceived the pain in the man’s chest, and his desperation as he fought against it. “I’ll get a nurse,” said Michael.
“No!” Rublev gasped. He grabbed at Michael’s hand where it rested on the side of the bed and gripped it tight. As tight as if he were a fit and healthy man.
“They can do … nothing …” he gasped.
Michael did not pull away and Rublev lessened his grip. It took several long minutes, but his breathing returned to a staccato kind of normal. Through it all, his mind was lurching between lucid understanding of where he was and dream-like memories of his past. Michael saw bits of London that he recognised – from the distinctive sign for Tottenham Court Road tube station, to the tower that held Big Ben. There were images of unfamiliar places in which Rublev remembered himself as a younger man of tall, slim build. They might have been glimpses of his home in Russia, but Michael associated Russia with cold and snow, and these images were all sunny. One face kept returning in those memories: a young woman smiling, in a white summer dress decorated with yellow flowers that swished as she walked.
“In the top drawer,” said Rublev with one large and difficult breath.
Michael used his free hand to open the drawer of the bedside cabinet which was empty other than for a few scattered medical leaflets and a sealed envelope with ‘Sergeant Patterson’ written on it in calligraphic script. He pulled out the envelope and showed it to Rublev. The man squinted. Michael held the envelope closer until the Russian was satisfied at what he saw and relaxed back into the pillow.
“All. In. There,” he managed.
“I’ll give it to Sergeant Patterson,” said Michael. “He may have some follow-up questions, if that’s okay.”
“No questions,” gasped Rublev. “All. In. There.”
Michael put the envelope in his pocket and felt the man’s hand weaken its hold around his own. “Stay … with … me …” he whispered.
Rublev panted a hard-fought breath. I’m going , said his thoughts, and then the words turned to Russian, tumbling through his mind in sentences that Michael did not understand. Skazhi Andrei Orlov … pozhalsta … skazhi Andrei Orlov chto on bil prav.
Rublev panted another breath. Memories spiralled in images of distorted faces and places washed in red or brown or blue colours. An older man with grey swept-back hair and layers of clothing – shirt, tie, cardigan, jacket, overcoat – smiled at him then faded away. The face of the woman in the summer dress appeared in one moment of clarity before she was eclipsed by the grotesque grins of men in suits and the twisted facade of a grey concrete building.
Rublev willed another laboured breath into his body and pain shot through his chest.
Fear gripped him. He was drowning in a room of plentiful air, reaching out for oxygen. Michael perceived Rublev gasping for life, but his body was not responding, not breathing.
Darkness grew inside Rublev’s mind. He felt each painful beat of his heart like a hammer blow to his chest, but still not strong enough to force his blood to pump very
The man’s thoughts coalesced into recognising the world around him. “Sergeant Patterson’s friend,” he croaked in a whisper just loud enough to be heard over the air conditioning.
“Sorry we couldn’t come sooner,” said Michael. “Sergeant Patterson is investigating the terrorist bombing at the Capital Hotel.”
“I heard,” said Rublev, struggling with each syllable. “Why do young people want to throw their lives away when there are so many others desperate to hang onto life?”
Rublev gasped for air, his throat rasping as it forced life-giving oxygen into his lungs. Rublev knew, in his mind, that talking strained his body and he accepted the coughing fit that followed, shaking the bed as the spasming momentarily blocked his ability to breathe.
Michael perceived the pain in the man’s chest, and his desperation as he fought against it. “I’ll get a nurse,” said Michael.
“No!” Rublev gasped. He grabbed at Michael’s hand where it rested on the side of the bed and gripped it tight. As tight as if he were a fit and healthy man.
“They can do … nothing …” he gasped.
Michael did not pull away and Rublev lessened his grip. It took several long minutes, but his breathing returned to a staccato kind of normal. Through it all, his mind was lurching between lucid understanding of where he was and dream-like memories of his past. Michael saw bits of London that he recognised – from the distinctive sign for Tottenham Court Road tube station, to the tower that held Big Ben. There were images of unfamiliar places in which Rublev remembered himself as a younger man of tall, slim build. They might have been glimpses of his home in Russia, but Michael associated Russia with cold and snow, and these images were all sunny. One face kept returning in those memories: a young woman smiling, in a white summer dress decorated with yellow flowers that swished as she walked.
“In the top drawer,” said Rublev with one large and difficult breath.
Michael used his free hand to open the drawer of the bedside cabinet which was empty other than for a few scattered medical leaflets and a sealed envelope with ‘Sergeant Patterson’ written on it in calligraphic script. He pulled out the envelope and showed it to Rublev. The man squinted. Michael held the envelope closer until the Russian was satisfied at what he saw and relaxed back into the pillow.
“All. In. There,” he managed.
“I’ll give it to Sergeant Patterson,” said Michael. “He may have some follow-up questions, if that’s okay.”
“No questions,” gasped Rublev. “All. In. There.”
Michael put the envelope in his pocket and felt the man’s hand weaken its hold around his own. “Stay … with … me …” he whispered.
Rublev panted a hard-fought breath. I’m going , said his thoughts, and then the words turned to Russian, tumbling through his mind in sentences that Michael did not understand. Skazhi Andrei Orlov … pozhalsta … skazhi Andrei Orlov chto on bil prav.
Rublev panted another breath. Memories spiralled in images of distorted faces and places washed in red or brown or blue colours. An older man with grey swept-back hair and layers of clothing – shirt, tie, cardigan, jacket, overcoat – smiled at him then faded away. The face of the woman in the summer dress appeared in one moment of clarity before she was eclipsed by the grotesque grins of men in suits and the twisted facade of a grey concrete building.
Rublev willed another laboured breath into his body and pain shot through his chest.
Fear gripped him. He was drowning in a room of plentiful air, reaching out for oxygen. Michael perceived Rublev gasping for life, but his body was not responding, not breathing.
Darkness grew inside Rublev’s mind. He felt each painful beat of his heart like a hammer blow to his chest, but still not strong enough to force his blood to pump very
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