Mind Secrets: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 1) by Jane Killick

while Otis hovered beside him nervously, with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
    Michael watched the fish. They swam in a tank about the length of Otis’s car, lit from above by a soft blue light. They were beautiful, luscious colours. Some yellow, some striped white and black, a few orange ones, a shoal of small blue ones. All living in one tiny little world. He didn’t know whether to envy their simple, carefree lives or pity them for being trapped in the tank with nothing to do all day except swim.
    A man in a lab coat came out of a side door behind reception and walked towards them. Otis was fiddling with his phone and didn’t notice.
    “Hello, Oliver,” said the man.
    Otis twizzled round. “Dad,” he said instinctively.
    Dad?
    It was hard to see the resemblance between the teenager and the man. The man, who had to be Doctor Smith, must have been pushing fifty. He was balding and, if he’d ever had Otis’s shocking blond hair, then grey had long ago chased it away. He wasn’t overweight, but neither did he have the muscular frame Otis had. He wore a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, while Otis had naked eyes. But, as Michael looked closer, he realised there was something similar in their faces.
    “We can talk in the boardroom,” said Doctor Smith.
    Otis shuffled his feet nervously. “It’s okay, I’ll just take the envelope.”
    “Sign in, Oliver,” said Doctor Smith, dismissing his son’s protest. “You can bring your friend if you want.”
    Otis didn’t argue anymore. He gave his father an annoyed look, then went back to the desk where the receptionist provided him with a pen. Michael signed in after him. He saw that Otis had scrawled O. Smith into the book, confirming that he and the scientist were father and son. Michael used the same false name he had used at the clinic.
    “Oliver?” whispered Michael as they followed Dr Smith through the side door.
    “Shut up,” said Otis.
    The boardroom was only a couple of doors down the corridor. It was a rectangular room dominated by a long wooden table with a dozen chairs placed around the edge and a neutral beige decor that was as corporately neat as the receptionist.
    Doctor Smith flicked the catch on the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed. He pulled out two chairs for them to sit in. Otis gave him a suspicious glance, then sat down next to Michael. He shifted on his seat like a nervous child sent to the head teacher’s office.
    “How are you, Oliver?”
    “What’s this about, Dad?”
    “Still living in that filthy squat?”
    “Dad!”
    Doctor Smith turned to Michael. “And who are you? Involved in one of Oliver’s scams, I suppose.”
    Michael leant back from the coldness of the man’s disapproving eyes. “Just a friend.”
    “If you’re a friend, can you get him to call his mother a bit more often. And tell him a visit at Christmas wouldn’t come amiss either.”
    “Dad!” Otis stood up. “We came for the results, not an interrogation. If you haven’t got them, then I might as well go.”
    “For goodness’ sake, Oliver, sit down. I did the analysis.” Doctor Smith pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his lab coat and laid it out on the table in front of them. Otis sat back down and perused the piece of paper. Michael looked over his shoulder to see it was a printout, listing a series of chemical names and percentages. It wasn’t the exciting result he was anticipating. Just a lot of scientific gobbledygook.
    “What does it mean?” said Otis.
    Doctor Smith reached into his lab coat again and pulled out a glass vial which appeared to be the one Michael had taken from the cure clinic. “I suppose it would be pointless to ask how you got hold of this?”
    “Pointless,” agreed Otis.
    “You’re certain this is the drug injected into perceivers to cure them?”
    “Certain,” said Michael. “Why?”
    “Because it’s not what I expected.”
    “What is it?” said Otis.
    “It’s Midazolam,” said Doctor