Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“So far, I have no problem with any of this,” said Molly.

“You wouldn’t,” I said. But it gets worse. Having decided that she now knew better than anyone else what was good for people, Ammonia then went through a phase of overhauling the personalities of everyone she met. Rewriting their minds for the better . . . according to her lights. More like telepathic muggings. Some of these rewritings were successful; others weren’t. A lot of people ended up killing themselves, because they knew they weren’t who they were supposed to be. Some of them killed other people, because some subtle restraint had been removed. But by then Ammonia had moved on, never around to clean up the messes she’d made. She stopped only because practically every other telepath in the world got together and ganged up on her and made her stop. Such a gathering was made possible only through my family’s intervention, and I’m not sure we could make it happen a second time. Getting telepaths to work together is like herding cats. It is possible, but only with the continued threat of immediate extreme violence. Which can be very wearing . . . I’m pretty sure Ammonia still blames us for stopping her fun. Anyway, after all this she went into a bit of a sulk and retreated from the world. Only comes out to work on cases no one else can manage; and then only for the challenge, and a truly massive fee.

“She lives all the way out here because she knows too many secrets. No one can keep anything from her, you see. And since she’s met pretty much everyone who matters, at one time or another, there are always agents and assassins on her trail, either to kidnap her to force those secrets out of her, or to kill her to make sure her secrets die with her. She could hide herself so completely that no one could find her, but her pride won’t allow that. And she does so love to prove she’s still as powerful as everyone’s afraid she is. So she stays here, and lets her enemies get close enough that she can have some fun playing with them. Sometimes she lets them get right to her gate before she makes their heads explode. Sometimes she mind-wipes them, and leaves them to wander the world as horrific living examples. And sometimes she rewrites them and sends them back to murder the people who sent them to kill her.”

“Okay,” said Molly. “You’ve said your piece. I feel very thoroughly lectured and warned. Do you feel better?”

“Not really, no.”

We headed for the front door again. I didn’t hurry, taking my time. Molly frowned.

“You’re actually scared of her, aren’t you?”

“Not scared, not as such . . .” I said, and then stopped. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, and the cold sweat beading on my forehead. “If my torc isn’t enough to protect me, the first I’ll know about it is when Ammonia slips inside my head and makes me do things. Think what she could do with my armour. . . . All the terrible things she could make me do to you, or my family, while I was held helpless inside my own head . . .”

I stopped, because Molly was smiling at me fondly. “I have never known anyone who could find so many ways to feel guilty about things you haven’t even done! None of that will happen, because I won’t let it happen. You may not be able to trust your torc, but you trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I can always trust you, Molly.”

We were right outside the front door. I raised a hand to knock, and the door swung suddenly open before me. And there, standing in the doorway and very obviously blocking our path, was Ammonia Vom Acht herself. She didn’t look pleased to see us.

The greatest telepath mankind has ever produced was under medium height, stocky, with a broad and almost mannish face under a frizzy shock of unrestrained auburn hair. She had piercing green eyes, a hook of a nose and a thin, flat mouth not really helped by a brief slash of dark red lipstick. There was a lot of character in her face, but no one was ever going to call her pretty. Or even handsome, unless the light was really bad. Someone once said she had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle, and I could see why. She wore dull, characterless clothes with more than a touch of the masculine about them: a battered tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, over baggy trousers with earth stains still on the knees from working in the garden. Her shoes were stout brogues, with trailing laces.

I didn’t run. I knew my duty.

When she finally spoke, her voice was harsh and clipped and almost emotionless.

“So. Edwin Drood and Molly Metcalf. I’ve been expecting you. I was busy gardening when I sensed you were coming, so this had better be worth it.”

“Hold everything,” I said, caught off guard despite myself. “We arrived instantaneously through the Merlin Glass.”

“I sensed the Glass was about to open here,” said Ammonia. “You have no idea what an impact that thing makes on the world when you use it. But then, you don’t even know what it is, really, do you?”

“Do you?” Molly said bluntly.

Ammonia ignored her, which isn’t easy. She looked us both over, eyes narrowed, and then nodded abruptly. “You’re both shielded. Good. Nothing worse than a noisy mind. That’s why I have to live out here, so far away from everyone else. Being the most powerful telepathic mind in the world isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be. I have trouble keeping everyone else out of my head. The world will keep pressing in. People will intrude . . . and all the shouting makes me tired.”

She stepped back. “Come in. Brush your feet on the mat. Properly! And don’t mutter.”

She beckoned us into a wide, brightly lit hallway with bare wooden floors and faded prints of rare flowers on the walls. Molly and I slipped in, and the door closed itself behind us. Ammonia turned her back on us and headed for the door at the far end, gesturing brusquely for Molly and me to follow her. We did so. She didn’t look back, but she did keep talking to us over her shoulder.

“You were wondering why there are only insects in my garden, and no beasts or birds. I scare them off. Have to. Can’t stand to have anything with a mind around me. All that red-in-tooth-and-claw stuff; they can’t turn it off, you know. The endless fear and appetite make me bad tempered.”

I felt a chill run up the back of my neck. “Were you reading our minds just then?”

“No,” said Ammonia. “I heard you talking about it in the garden. It’s quiet in the garden. That’s why I like it. Come through into the parlour. Meet my husband, Peter.”

That last bit almost stopped me dead. There was nothing in any of my family’s files about the infamous Ammonia Vom Acht being married. Molly shot me a quick look and mouthed the word husband? and all I could do was shrug helplessly.

The parlour was small and cosy, filled with modern, brutally styleless furniture that clashed loudly with the rest of the cottage. Bright sunlight streamed in through the great bay window. There were vases of fresh flowers on every flat surface, pleasantly scenting the air. A large and very modern electric clock dominated one wall, working silently away, while the other walls presented paintings by several masters. Ammonia, it seemed, was very fond of the Pre-Raphaelites. Payment for past services, presumably. Two large and very comfortable-looking armchairs stood facing each other across the real fireplace. Sunk deeply in one of the chairs was Ammonia Vom Acht’s husband, Peter.

He rose languidly from the depths of his chair to greet us. He smiled vaguely in our direction, but didn’t offer a hand to shake. He was a tall, diffident sort in an expensive three-piece suit with recent dinner stains on the waistcoat, a pale, bland face under thinning blond hair, and a calm, uncommitted smile. He had a large drink in his hand, though it was barely midday.