Free The Secret Prophecy by Herbie Brennan Page B

Dr. Marlow had said, had given him a floor plan with the clinic’s logo on it—a merry little eye inside a triangle—then lost interest in him altogether. Ms. Playfair had told him his mother was in the conservatory, resting, and had marked the area with an X. So far he’d seen no other patients, thank heavens. Perhaps they were all out for a walk or watching television or having supper or something. With luck he might be able to see his mother without even . . .
    Em turned a corner. An old woman with unruly, graying hair was staggering drunkenly along the corridor toward him, holding onto the wall for support. Her eyes were wild and staring, her face locked into a contorted expression of manic determination. She gave a strangled call when she saw him and increased her pace.
    For a moment Em considered running. He didn’t know how to deal with lunatics, and this was clearly a card-carrying escapee from the funny farm.
    He should never have hesitated. The mad woman put on a surprising burst of speed and was almost upon him now. “Em,” she gasped. “Oh, Em . . .”
    Em went cold. If he’d still had time to run, he knew his legs would never have worked. He felt totally paralyzed, except for a jaw that dropped of its own accord to register astonishment. “Mum . . . ?”
    Then she was holding him, clinging to him, using him as support while he held her and nearly burst into tears, then did burst into tears as he murmured, “Oh, Mum. Oh, Mum. Oh, Mum.”
    “They told me you’d arrived,” his mother whispered. “That Playfair woman phoned and said you were coming to meet me in the conservatory.” She stroked his hair and stared into his eyes. “They have cameras in the conservatory. They spy on everything you do here. I don’t want to talk to you while they’re spying on us, so I came to meet you. Oh, Em, I’m so glad you’ve come.” She was having trouble with her balance, but he knew she wasn’t drunk. There was no smell on her breath, no thickening of her speech, although she was talking slowly.
    “What have they done to you, Mum?” Em asked.
    “Tranquilizers. Heavy-duty. Two capsules the size of a horse pill three times a day, and they force you to take them. Makes you floppy all the time, affects your balance. Bloody buzzing in the ears as well, but think they care about that? They just want you sedated so you’re no trouble and don’t try to escape. You don’t either: I couldn’t climb onto a bus in this state, let alone find a bus stop.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “But you’re here now.”
    “Your hair’s gone gray,” Em said inconsequently.
    His mother actually managed a small smile. “Didn’t have my rinse with me, and they don’t let you buy in stuff. It’ll be fine when I get to a hairdresser.”
    You’ve only been here for four days, Em thought. A rinse wouldn’t wear out in four days. The gray had to have something to do with the drugs she was on. Or the stress of what had happened to her. He opened his mouth to say something else, but she beat him to it. “Don’t talk here, Em. There are cameras in the corridors: I don’t know how well they pick up sound, but they’re monitored, and the staff can lip-read.”
    In different circumstances it would have sounded paranoid, but he was feeling pretty paranoid himself these days. “Okay, Mum,” he murmured.
    “We’ll go to my room,” his mother said. “No cameras there, and I can’t find any bugs.”
    Her room was small, but tastefully furnished with a bed, a couch, two chairs, a built-in wardrobe, and a compact writing desk. There was even a bathroom en suite, shower, and loo. He was about to say something as they walked in, but his mother put a finger to her lips and led him straight through into the bathroom. She turned on every tap and the shower, then leaned forward until her lips were close to his ear so he could hear her above the sound of gushing water. “I couldn’t find bugs, but that