Dylan shrugged. Fernandez cleared his throat. ‘Nico and Ed each earned two demerits last night for being out of their dorm after lights out. Nico’s punishment is to spend the rest of the day digging the new well.’
There was a gasp from Tommy. I glanced at him and he whispered, ‘That well is hard labour. They’ve been working on it for months and it makes digging potato patches in the field look like eating cake.’
I looked back at Fernandez. What the hell did he have in store for me?
He turned his dark eyes on me. I looked away, my face burning.
‘Ed will take his demerits by working all his shifts today in the kitchen.’
I looked up. A low – and disgruntled – murmur swept round the room. Kitchen duty was widely accepted as the easiest chore option. No way was it normally used as a demerit punishment.
‘Silence,’ Fernandez snapped. He strode out of the room.
I sat, looking down at my lap, feeling everyone else’s gaze upon me. Tommy, who was sitting next to me, leaned across and whispered, ‘How come he’s letting you off so light?’
I shook my head. I had no idea – maybe kitchen chores would involve something disgusting today, worse than the fish gutting I’d done the evening before last.
As breakfast finished, everyone filed out. Ketty was on breakfast duty with me.
‘What were you and Nico thinking last night?’ she asked as we cleared the plates and bowls onto trays. ‘Surely you realised Fernandez would have disabled his office phone when he wasn’t there?’
I shook my head, then explained how I’d been trying to work out what Fernandez was doing with the police van kids – and what information he held on us. I mentioned Luz too, though not how much I’d wanted to find out about her.
‘Please be careful, Ed,’ Ketty said, looking up at me with anxious, golden-brown eyes. ‘I want to get out of here us much as you do, but we can’t mess with Fernandez . . . I keep trying to see into the future and I can’t. I don’t know why.’ She shuddered. ‘I just know that I’d hate it if you got hurt.’
I stared at a spot to the left of her eyes, feeling my face going red again.
‘There’s something else,’ I stammered. ‘Fernandez knows I can mind-read.’
‘What?’ Ketty said, her eyes widening. ‘How?’
I explained what had happened while Ketty ran a bowl of washing-up water, her forehead screwed up into a frown. She was silent for a while.
‘Maybe that’s why Fernandez hasn’t punished you properly yet for breaking into his office last night,’ she said at last, ‘because he’s realised you can mind-read and wants more time to work out what to do about it.’
I shrugged, following Ketty’s gaze out of the kitchen window. The new well was clearly some way in the distance, beyond the field. I could just make out the top of Nico’s head, deep inside it. Every few seconds a shovelful of earth appeared, tossed out of the hole he was digging.
‘Is he using telekinesis to do that?’
‘Course he is – and he’s getting really good at it too,’ Ketty said. She glanced sideways at me and smiled proudly. ‘You know what he’s like.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I know.’
The rest of the day passed easily enough. Spurred on by my discovery of the Escondite files, I made my first serious attempt to contact Mum and Dad by remote telepathy, willing my brain to find theirs, wherever they were.
All I got was a headache.
I did at least find out what Escondite meant, though – hiding place.
Fernandez didn’t reappear for the rest of the day. Cindy remained in a foul mood, snapping at me three times for peeling potatoes badly, leaving smear marks on the washing-up and spilling a pint of milk on the kitchen floor. At one point she marched me across to the barn to fetch a fresh mop. Dylan was in there alone, gluing a chair leg together. I glanced at her as I fetched the mop, but she didn’t look round.
Nico joined us for supper, though Dylan was made to eat alone in the barn. He was in quite a good mood, considering he’d been outside in the heat all day. He sat next to Ketty, telling her in a low whisper how he’d perfected the telekinetic act of digging earth with his spade without actually touching it.
‘Ed.’ Fernandez’s voice appeared from nowhere.
I turned as he walked over.
‘Come on.’ He indicated the door.
‘What . . . er, where . . .?’
‘I didn’t give you permission to speak,’ Fernandez snapped. ‘Follow me.’
I cast a swift look round at Ketty and Nico. They stared up at us, open-mouthed.
I wanted to mind-read with Ketty, but I didn’t dare do it right under Fernandez’s nose. So I turned and followed him out of the room.
He led me outside to the front of the main building. I hadn’t been out here since our first day. This time I took in details I hadn’t before, like the rubber tyre propped up against the wall and the faded yellow ribbon someone had tied in one of the thorny bushes by the front door.
Fernandez strode over to his car – a battered old Ford. ‘Get in.’
As I opened the door my heart started thumping. God knows I hated Camp Felicidad, but no way did I want to be leaving like this – without the others and not knowing where I was going.
We set off, into the desert. The mountain range was behind us, the sun low in the sky to our rights. Around us, sand stretched out in all directions. Bleak and bare.
Fernandez eyed me curiously. ‘Tell me how far this telepathy thing of yours goes,’ he said.
‘It isn’t telepathy,’ I lied. ‘I told you, it’s just a trick.’
Fernandez snorted. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘I could feel you last night – your voice inside my head, reading my thoughts and telling me your own.’
I looked down. Oh God. Nico was right. I really had given myself away – and for no advantage whatsoever.
‘So . . .’ Fernandez went on. ‘Can you tell what I’m thinking all the time? Or just when you look at me?’
There was no point in pretending any more.
‘Only when I look at you,’ I said. There was a pause. I took a deep breath. ‘Why?’
Fernandez changed gear to negotiate a particularly rocky stretch of road.
‘You’ll see in two hours,’ he said, a nasty smile creeping across his face. ‘You’ll see.’
6: The show
What on earth was Fernandez planning? I sat back, feeling anxious, as shadows spread across the desert and Camp Felicidad became a tiny white dot in the rear-view mirror.
Half an hour passed. The heat of the day eased and the sun sank quickly in the sky. So far we hadn’t passed a single car or building. And then Fernandez rounded a bend and a petrol station came into view. He pulled up at one of the pumps. A boy came running out.
‘Hola, senor.’
‘Hola.’ Fernandez jumped down from the jeep, a long stream of Spanish that I couldn’t follow issuing from his mouth.
I sat back as the boy darted over to the petrol pump and unwound the hose. Fernandez locked me in and disappeared inside the corrugated-iron-roofed hut across the forecourt. A breeze through the tiny slit he’d left open in the window of the jeep felt cool against my hot face. I turned. The boy was busy filling up the car. I half-thought of banging on the window to attract his attention . . . pleading with him to help me escape . . . but before the thought had fully formed in my mind, Fernandez was back.
He strode towards the jeep, unlocking it as he marched. He paused to thank the boy, pressing a few coins into his palm, then jumped into the jeep and pulled away.
I wanted to ask again where we were going, but there seemed little point.
‘Permission to speak?’ I said.
‘Granted,’ Fernandez replied, as we headed into the desert again.
‘How come your English is so good?’ I asked.
Fernandez glanced at me. ‘I went to an International School in the south of Spain for five years,’ he said. ‘I speak Spanish, English and French equal
ly well.’
I waited in case he was going to say more, but he didn’t. The petrol station was now well behind us. I closed my eyes and thought about Mum and Dad again. Dad had always been hard on me – pushing me to toughen up. He’d probably think being in camp was good for me. But my stepmum would definitely be worrying. I wondered if she was okay. And what about my sisters? Did they even know I was still alive? Or had Mum and Dad told them I’d been killed in the explosion at Fox Academy?
If only I could make contact with them.
I tried to focus on their faces, imagining the whole family. Mum in the kitchen, busy with dinner. Dad getting in from work complaining about his latest contract – an incomplete delivery, a rude client, an unreliable labourer. And Amy and Kim sitting round the kitchen table eating biscuits and doing their homework.
I visualised each one in turn, imagining I was staring into their eyes. Nothing happened. I felt overwhelmed with despair. My failed attempts at remote telepathy were just making my homesickness worse. I opened my eyes and focused on the view outside the window, determined to stop thinking about my family for the moment.
In the distance, a skyline of buildings gradually emerged. A cluster of white houses. A town. Was this where we were going?
Fernandez drove into the empty streets, and past a row of shops. It was properly dusk now and lights were on inside several of the houses we passed. My heartbeat fastened. This was a chance to get away . . . all I had to do was give Fernandez the slip – find an adult who’d understand my Spanish. In my head, I rehearsed what I would say: Ayudame, por favor. El hombre es malo. Quiero usar el telefono.
It wasn’t good Spanish, but it would get my point across.
Fernandez stopped outside a low, brick building surrounded by fairy lights. A sign hung from the door: Casa Madelina.
‘We’re in San Juan,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘This is the main bar.’
‘Why are we here?’ I asked.
Fernandez grinned. ‘For tonight’s show,’ he said. ‘A testing ground for fresh talent.’
‘What fresh talent?’ I said.
The grin deepened. ‘Yours.’
‘What?’ I stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
Fernandez switched off the car engine and took out the key. His face was suddenly serious. ‘The Madelina is a local bar with an open mic policy. At a certain point every evening Jorge, the owner, lets a couple of punters get up on stage and do their thing. It’s mostly locals who fancy themselves as singer/songwriters, though sometimes you get so-called comedians and I once saw a juggler here. There’s never anyone good. People come for a laugh and a few beers.’ Fernandez paused. ‘You’re going to take their breath away with that mind-reading thing you do.’
‘What?’ My heart raced. ‘It isn’t mind-reading,’ I said quickly. ‘I told you, it’s just a trick.’
‘Whatever it is, it works,’ Fernandez said. ‘You knew what I was thinking last night. I could feel you inside my head.’
A million anxieties crowded my mind. He was expecting me to use my telepathy when my biggest priority was to keep my Gift secret. Not to mention having to stand up in front of an audience of adult Spaniards and ‘perform’.
‘But I can’t,’ I pleaded, thinking fast. ‘They’ll all be thinking in Spanish . . .’
‘Then think back in Spanish.’ Fernandez opened the locks on the car doors. ‘You’ve got enough basic language to do that – I’ve heard you. I’ll introduce you to the audience. All you have to do is tell them what they’re thinking. Just remember that if you don’t . . .’ he paused, ‘you and your friends will drown under demerits.’
He leaped out of the car and was round to my side in seconds. He held the door open as I stepped out. My head spun. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I stumbled inside, Fernandez at my side.
Casa Madelina was dark and smoky. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gloomy, candlelit interior. The bar wasn’t large – just a few round tables with a bar serving drinks down one side and a small stage area at the end. Most of the tables were occupied by dark-haired, middle-aged men, at least half of whom were smoking. I could only see one woman – also middle-aged – in a low-cut pink top. She glanced up at me – an uninterested stare – and threw a smile at Fernandez. He half-smiled back, his eyes sweeping the room. Who was he looking for? A couple of men at different tables looked up. Then a large man in an open-necked shirt who’d been standing by the bar strode towards us, his arms wide, a huge smile on his face.
‘Antonio!’ He embraced Fernandez and the two men spoke in rapid Spanish which I couldn’t follow. After a few moments I realised that they were talking about me.
Fernandez prodded the side of my head and chuckled. The other man looked sceptical, then laughed too.
‘Hello, Ed,’ he said, his accent thick and strong. ‘I am Jorge. We see what you do, vale?’
‘Vale,’ I said. Okay. What else could I say? ‘Ahora?’ Now?
‘No.’ Jorge brushed his thinning hair off his forehead. ‘After beer.’ He turned and yelled across to the bar. ‘Tres cervezas!’
We went over to one of the tables nearest the stage and sat down. A large mug of beer was placed in front of me. I took a few sips but felt too sick with worry to drink it properly. I don’t really like the taste of alcohol anyway, if I’m honest – and certainly not beer.
How was I going to get out of this? Why was Fernandez even making me do it? I frowned, lost in my own thoughts as the clink of glasses and low murmur of voices faded away.
I’m not sure how much time passed. Eventually a man with a guitar dragged his chair to the front of the room and sang a song. It was slow and wailing and he was flat. Not that the rest of the bar seemed to care, they just carried on talking as if he wasn’t even there. My spirits rose a little. Maybe no one would notice me after all.
Jorge ushered the singer off the stage, then came over to me. ‘Ed?’ he said.
Fernandez leaned over. ‘Keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Don’t cock it up.’
Legs shaking, I made my way to the stage. I sat in the chair the guitarist had vacated and looked up. Most people were still chatting away to each other, not paying me any attention. At least the lights were low. I glanced round, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. The woman in the pink top was watching me, nudging her neighbour, a thickset man with a streak of grey through his black hair.
He looked up, as Fernandez started speaking.
Fernandez’s Spanish was fast, but I caught the occasional word. He was basically bigging me up, saying that I was able to do something extraordinary – estupendo . . . maravillosa – that the people watching wouldn’t believe what I could do.
The room fell silent as he turned to me.
‘You’re up,’ he said in a low voice.
‘What d’you want me to do, exactly?’ I hissed, my face burning.
‘I told you.’ Fernandez glanced round the room. ‘Start with . . . I don’t know – him, the man with the grey streak in his hair sitting next to that woman. Find something he doesn’t want you to see, like you did with me.’
‘No.’ I stared at my hands, my heart thudding. I couldn’t do this. Apart from anything else, it meant giving away the secret of my telepathy – the very thing we were here to protect.
‘Do it now, Ed.’ Fernandez lowered his head. I could feel his breath against my ear. ‘If you don’t read that man’s mind in the next three seconds I will personally ensure that your three friends spend the rest of their time here in solitary confinement. Everything they do will earn them a demerit.’
I stared at him. Surely he couldn’t mean that. Fernandez glared back at me, his eyes blazing. Instinctively, I knew that he did mean it. At this moment, he was prepared to do anything to make me perform. He had too much face to lose if I didn’t. And it wasn’t just me, if I didn’t do what he said, Nico and Dylan and, worst of all, Ketty, would suffer.
There was no other option.
I
looked into the audience. The man with the grey streak in his hair was watching me, his mouth slightly open. I met his gaze. Whoosh. Seconds later I was inside his head.
The first emotion I felt was shock, then anger. But not at me. This was residual anger. His default emotion. I steadied my mind, waiting to catch a coherent thought.
Que pasa? What’s happening? the man was thinking.
No te preoccupes. Don’t worry, I thought back.
Around us I could hear raised voices. The woman beside him was speaking in a shrill voice. ‘Manuel, Manuel,’ she persisted. ‘Mirame.’ Look at me.
‘Hurry up,’ Fernandez hissed in my ear.
Manuel? I probed a little deeper. God, this man’s head was a mess. Emotions and memories all muddled up . . . indistinct thoughts careering round each other . . .
A horse being whipped. Anger driving through everything.
I felt sick. I didn’t like it. I swallowed, trying to find one coherent thought I could use. There. He kept thinking about someone called Susanna. A woman. He hated her, I was certain.
I broke the connection. Immediately, Manuel leaped to his feet, his fist clenched. He let out a stream of Spanish swear words, only a couple of which I recognised.
I stared down at the table. Fernandez gripped my shoulder. ‘What did you see?’
The atmosphere in the room grew tense. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Manuel push back his chair. He advanced towards us.
‘Ed,’ Fernandez hissed. ‘For God’s sake.’
I looked up, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘There’s some woman called Susanna. He hates her.’
‘La mujer Susanna,’ Fernandez announced to the room. He turned to Manuel and spoke again in a burst of rapid Spanish I just about got the gist of. ‘Why do you hate Susanna so much?’
Manuel stopped in his tracks. His furious face paled as he shifted his gaze from Fernandez to me. ‘Por dios,’ he said, sinking into the nearest chair.
For a split second there was silence, then Jorge tipped his head back and let out a roar of laughter.
‘Su ex mujer, Susanna,’ he shouted.
Fernandez clapped me on the back. ‘Manuel’s ex-wife,’ he said. ‘Well done, Ed, they know there’s no way you could have known that.’
The Rescue Page 5
