Mindreader

By Damian Trasler

The power to read minds sounds great, but what can you really do with it? Alex Templeman has decided that the best way to make money and avoid dissection is to work as a stage psychic. No one believes he's real, but no one can explain how he does his routine, and that's the way he likes it.

Right up until Angela walks onto the stage and not only believes in him, she believes he's the only one who can help her. From that point on, Alex is caught in a web of his own devising, trying to save his professional reputation while fighting off the attacks from Professor Barry Glasspool, a man determined to unmask him as the fraud he really isn't. Angela is in real danger, but Alex can't help her with Barry threatening his livlihood and even his liberty.

And besides, Angela has a reason to be afraid. The men who murdered her boyfriend really are out looking for her, and it doesn't take a mindreader to guess what their intentions are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Damian Trasler
• Release date: Jun 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311568267

Damian Trasler

A published and award-winning playwright since 1998, I have been dabbling in e-publishing since moving to Canada in 2009. I still write plays and sketches for my publisher (www.lazybeescripts.co.uk) and run a script appraisal service through them too. I have written several fiction novellas, four short story collections and a non-fiction guide to writing for community theatre, as well as a non-fiction account of my family's emigration to British Columbia. All these books are available through Amazon, but I am looking forward to publishing several more books through Smashwords.

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Mindreader

Copyright 2015 Damian Trasler

Published by Damian Trasler at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

About Damian Trasler

Thursday 8 am

The rain hammered down. Smashing into windowsills, rattling the carcasses of crisp packets, filling the dead eyes of the lifeless corpse. Constable Marsh dragged his gaze from the miserable shape at his feet and tried to press himself further into the doorway, scant protection from the freezing torrent. He looked up at the sound of cursing. Sgt Corder was sloshing through the floating debris to reach the crime scene. He stumbled to a halt, the water pushing up over his shoes. The tiny wave broke against the body, unable to soak the already sodden clothing. March looked at the sergeant expectantly. Corders’ tired face was set grim in the presence of the dead body and inclement weather, and March fervently prayed that the Scene of Crime Photographer had given good news, perhaps that he was already on his way.

Half an hour, son. grunted the sergeant.

Bollocks! exploded March, earning a sharp look.

Watch it Pete.

"Sorry, Bollocks, Sergeant." March was in no mood to be civil, the driving rain having washed away his patience hours since.

That’s better.

The sergeant seemed even gloomier than usual, and March didn’t much fancy the idea of keeping watch over the stiff until the photographer arrived. It wasn’t as if there’d be much physical evidence to preserve after a night of heavy rain, and the outcome of any inquest seemed clear enough even to him. Conclusion of the investigation? One less addict, case closed. Unexpectedly, the sergeant spoke up, a rare moment of compassion for a junior.

There’s a cafe round the corner son. Get yourself a coffee and warm up. You’ll be no good to me next week if you catch the bleeding flu. Oh balls!

March, already preparing himself for the dash out into the rain, looked up. He saw the unmarked police car which had drawn up at the end of the alleyway and the tall man getting out of it. He wore a heavy raincoat, but it flapped open as he made his way towards them, hopping from side to side to avoid the worst of the flooding. The rain had already plastered his wiry hair to his forehead when he reached them, but his only concession to the weather was to remove his round glasses and wipe them clear. Vision restored, he peered short-sightedly at the two policemen, who hastily scrambled out of their meagre shelter.

Ah, Sgt Corder. What’s the situation?

Corder tried to drag his body to some form of attention.

Body found early this morning, Inspector. Road sweepers called it in; PC March here was first on the scene. Various drug related items found up there sir, Corder indicated the steel fire escape staircase, whose mesh design had denied the pair a more substantial shelter from the rain, No sign of violence other than the obvious bruising. I.., that is we.. Corder floundered, finally settling for closing his jaw and staring ahead again. The Inspector had been gazing around the scene, glancing up at the escape when the Sgt indicated it, and now he swung back to face Corder.

Go on. You were about to say?

Corder shifted uncomfortably, but he had already committed himself.

PC March and myself sir, we’ve been discussing the case while waiting for the photographer and the Coroner. There was more than a hint of the irritation Corder felt evident in his tone. We think the sti..deceased was a user, got loaded and fell down the stairs sir.

The Sgt punctuated his theory with a shrug. March stared straight ahead, inwardly cursing that the Inspector hadn’t waited a couple more minutes. He’d have been snug and warm in the cafe, not going over pointless ground in the pouring bloody buggering rain.

Any ID? The inspector was asking. Corder looked across at March.

Didn’t look, sir. Orders. Can’t touch the deceased until the photographer has finished. If they ever start. That snipe earned another burning glare from the Sergeant, but the Inspector was nodding absently. Suddenly he straightened and stared at the two of them as if seeing them for the first time.

Good God, men, you’re soaked! Get yourselves round to that cafe. I’ll wait here. You’re under orders to have coffee and something hot to eat. Retain the receipts and forward them to my office and I’ll see you’re refunded. Make sure you send me a written report of this morning along with them.

The shocked pair stammered their thanks and were waved away. Despite his weight, Corder stayed ahead of March as they splashed back to the alley mouth.

Bugger me! March heard him muttering. Bugger me!

The Inspector didn’t spare the retreating pair another glance. He squatted next to the corpse, unmindful of his coat dragging in the water, examining the livid bruises on the lifeless face. He rose and stalked to the stairs, looking back at the body from time to time. He stood between the two for five minutes, until the sounds from the far end of the alley alerted him to the arrival of the photographer and coroner. Coat tails flapping wetly, he strode down the alleyway towards his car and knocked at the driver’s window.

Drop into that cafe and tell Corder and March they’re back on duty. They’ve had time for coffee and a bite, it’ll have to do. Then get back here, I need to be back at the office.

With a resigned nod, the officer heaved open the door and climbed out into the rain. Inspector Lennox swung himself into his seat, and looked back down the rain-soaked alley to the cluster of figures round the dead man.

Thursday 9.30 p.m.

Three people were watching Alex Templeman that night. The clientele of the club may have been watching him as well, but they were more interested in their drinks and each other, barely bothering to applaud his act when the cues came. Three people watched, taking in every detail of his show, listening to his patter, drinking in every word. Angela Marten watched, entranced. The fear that had driven her from her flat was forgotten, pushed away by the dark man on the tiny stage of the club, performing his minor miracles with a tired familiarity. She wanted to look around her, to encourage the others in the club to give the man the respect he deserved, but she could not drag her eyes away from him. As he completed another display of his ability, she applauded loudly.

Barry Glasspool frowned in annoyance. It was hard enough to see through this joker’s fakery thanks to the low lights and smoke-fogged air of the club, but that idiot who clapped every time the guy sneezed was really getting on his nerves. Barry took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. So far things were going well, with a selection of tricks any children’s entertainer would have been ashamed of. Proving Alex Templeman a fraud would be no problem, and he would be one step nearer his goal. Glancing around the club, he caught Curran’s eye, and nodded.

Simon Curran acknowledged Barry with a casual wave and turned his attention back to Templeman. He finally felt that things were going his way. This was his story in every way: he was behind it, pushing the major characters together, and he was on the ground for the first clash. He knew Glasspool was a fanatic, and Templeman’s claim of genuine psychic power was irresistible to him. By bringing Templeman to Glasspool’s attention, Curran had set events in motion, events he hoped would lift him out of the local newspaper scene and back to the dailies. He grinned savagely, visualising the scene : Glasspool and Templeman squaring off, the glaring headlines FRAUD EXPOSED. No one would care that Templeman was hardly Uri Geller.

For his part, Alex Templeman was sweating. This was far from an ordinary night at the club. He was used to indifference, in fact he relied on it. It was easy to run through his repertoire and fill the time if no one took any notice. Alex got his money, and Trautmann, the club’s owner, got to pretend his club was more upmarket than the other seedy nightspots he used to run. But tonight, tonight there were undercurrents, an atmosphere that was making him stumble over routines he’d done a million times. Finding the source of the hostility was no great effort: there were only three people paying any attention to his act. The first of the two men was a mystery. His face was grim and set, and he was staring intently at Alex, his cynicism clear. The other man seemed more than a little familiar. Running through his final card trick on autopilot, Alex wondered where he had seen the man before. That thin face, the prominent nose that gave the appearance of a ferret.. That was it.

He’d been snooping around the club two nights ago, asking Alex about his act, pretending to be a fan. Alex had seen through him easily enough: acts like his didn’t generate fans. It barely generated enough cash to pay his rent, which was why he relied so heavily on the winter cruise ship work, telling horoscopes and performing tabletop magic for elderly sunseekers. Alex had the man pegged as a reporter, possibly for a tabloid, but more likely a local rag. Was he going for an expose? Alex worried briefly that they might produce some old girlfriend to dredge up some dirt, but he realised that have to dredge pretty deep and find a very old girlfriend indeed.

Which brought him to the third watcher. She was the one who was doing the clapping, which was almost as disconcerting as the scrutiny of the two men. He had seen her come in, the red lights of the club tinting her blond hair as she scurried inside. She had moved as far from the door as possible, hurriedly getting a drink from the bar and burying herself at a far table. For the first five minutes she glanced at the door two or three times a minute, but gradually she transferred her attention to the stage. From Alex’s point of view she seemed to unfold like a flower in the sun. Her drink was forgotten, and she hadn’t looked back at the door in ten minutes. Now his act was drawing to a close, and more than anything else he wanted to find out more about this mysterious girl. She seemed to be young, maybe twenty-five or so, and in the harsh atmosphere of the club she seemed vulnerable and lost. Her interest in him was a spur to his naturally chivalrous nature.

On an impulse he ditched the last part of his act and called for a volunteer from the audience. This was a section of his act that he had abandoned while he worked in the clubs because of the high level of apathy he encountered, but he had a feeling he could get the girl to respond. The snooper had come alert, sitting straight up in his chair. He had seen the show two nights previously, and knew this was a change. The other watcher was still following the show, but seemed unaware of the change of pace. Putting the two men from his mind, Alex concentrated on the girl. He reached out to her, fingers spread in an uncharacteristically theatrical gesture. She had pushed herself back in her chair, eyes wide. Her hands gripped the sides of the table, as if she were using it to