Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“This is Peter,” said Ammonia. She might have been speaking about her accountant. “I married him because he’s a psychic null. Born shielded from every form of telepathic contact. His thoughts stay inside his head. I can’t hear him. I can relax around him.”

“And I married her because she needed me,” Peter said blithely. “And I do so love to be needed. Don’t I, old thing?”

His voice was well educated, even aristocratic: that affected, bored drawl that gets on everyone’s nerves.

“I can’t hear his thoughts or sense his feelings,” said Ammonia. “Everything he says and does is a surprise to me. You have no idea what a relief that is.”

“So many compliments,” said Peter. “You’ll make me blush, dear.”

Ammonia nodded slowly. “I’m not easy to live with. I know that.”

“Some marriages are made in heaven,” said Peter. “The rest of us do the best we can.” He spoke vaguely, his voice trailing away. When he looked up from his glass to take Molly and me in, his eyes were frankly disinterested. “You mustn’t mind Ammonia. She’s only being herself. Her problem is, she’s always had difficulty deciding where she stops and other people begin. The edges are never properly nailed down, for a telepath. Things sneak in: thoughts, emotions, intentions. . . . She has no people skills. None at all. I’m not even sure she is people, really.”

“Peter . . .” said Ammonia.

“Yes, dear, I know. We have guests. Party manners! Can I get you people a little something? I’m having a little something. I always have a little something about now.”

Molly and I declined. Peter nodded understandingly, knocked back what was left in his glass, and drifted over to the very modern sideboard to refill his glass from a functional but quite ugly crystal decanter that was already half-empty.

“Ammonia doesn’t drink,” he announced, turning lazily back to face his visitors. “She daren’t. Whereas I . . . am rarely sober. I daren’t . . . I drink like a fish, you know, like a spiny denizen of the deep. So would you, if you were married to the most powerful telepath in the world. It’s not the person, you understand; it’s the lifestyle. Oh, do sit down, both of you. You make the room look untidy. No use waiting for Ammonia to ask you. Such things simply don’t occur to her. No people skills, remember? Not her fault, of course.”

Peter slumped bonelessly back into his armchair, and Ammonia sank down into the chair opposite him. Not a single recognisable emotion had crossed her face so far. Molly and I pulled up two stiff-backed wooden chairs and sat down facing them.

“Given everything the poor girl’s been through, it’s a wonder she’s as sane as she is,” Peter said affably. It was off-putting, the way he talked about his wife as if sometimes she was there, and sometimes she wasn’t. He smiled vaguely at Molly and me. “Do you know the story? It’s not one of the better-known ones, but it is jolly interesting. Ammonia spent the first ten years of her life in a coma, you see. Self-inflicted, to protect her developing mind from the thoughts of all the world crashing in on her at once. She had to learn how to make a shield that would keep everyone else out, before she could decide on who she was. Think of the poor child knowing all there was to know about human nature at such a young and defenceless age. The good and the bad, the sane and the insane, the saints and the devils . . . Only an iron will kept her together. . . . That’s what makes her such a marvellous curative telepath. She knows all there is to know about the demons of the mind, because she’s been there. You’re very good at what you do, aren’t you, dear? Yes, you are.”

“Peter . . .” said Ammonia.

“I’m telling them what they need to know, old thing.” Peter smiled conspiratorially at Molly and me. “I see you’ve noticed all the fittings and furnishings are terribly up-to-date. Have to be. Ammonia can pick up traces, echoes, from all the people who used to own old things. People imprint on everything, you see. She had to run a full-scale telepathic exorcism on the cottage before we could move in, wiping the stone tape recording clean, as it were. And all the furniture has to be replaced regularly, every twelve months, because they soak up memories. We hold a nice little bonfire for the old stuff, out back. Because you can never tell what another telepath might pick up from it. For a telepath like Ammonia, peace of mind is everything. Everything. Isn’t that right, old girl?”

“Yes,” said Ammonia.

“And she has to be a vegetarian,” said Peter. “Because she can hear the dying screams and last terrified emotions of even the smallest piece of meat. Someone once told me that a plant screams when it’s plucked from the ground, but apparently that’s not true. Certainly not root vegetables, because we eat enough of the things. I haven’t had a sausage in years. Can’t even pig out when she’s away. You always know, don’t you, dear?”

“Does she always let you do all the talking?” said Molly.

“Mostly,” said Peter, entirely unperturbed. “It’s what I’m for. She has no small talk, poor old thing. And she doesn’t trust anyone. All the time we’ve been sitting here, chatting so cosily, she’s been trying to break through your shields, to see if she can. It’s not that she wants to know things; she can’t help herself. Have I distracted them enough now, old dear? Jolly good . . . I’ll be quiet. Got some serious liver damage to be getting on with. . . .”

“I’ve heard of both of you,” Ammonia Vom Acht said flatly, and my eyes snapped back to her. Edwin Drood and Molly Metcalf. The Drood who thinks he’s better than other Droods. Who thinks he’s the first Drood to develop a conscience. But you’re far from the first to try to redeem your family, Eddie. Power corrupts; always has, and always will. Those torcs of yours make you more powerful than people were ever meant to be.

“And you, Molly. The loudest and least of the infamous Metcalf sisters. Is there anything more obvious and pathetic than another young rebel without a cause? Who rejects everything so she doesn’t have to commit to anything? And yes, Molly, I know my reputation, too. Is there ever anyone more rejected than the one who tells the truths that no one wants to hear?”

“Well,” I said brightly. “That’s told us! But I don’t think I’ll take any of it too seriously. You tell the truth, Ammonia, only as you see it. ‘ “What is truth?” said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. . . . ’ ”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” said Ammonia.

“No,” I said. “Somewhat to my surprise . . .”

“I can’t stand people who aren’t afraid of me,” said Ammonia.

“It’s true,” said Peter, staring sadly into his drink. “She can’t.”

“I’m not hiring you to like me,” I said to Ammonia, meeting her gaze steadily. “I’m hiring you to break into our Librarian’s head and see if you can put him right. An other-dimensional entity assaulted his mind some years back, and it’s still scrambled. You think you can fix that?”

“I do love a challenge,” said Ammonia.

“It’s true,” said Peter. “She does. She really does. . . . Oh. Sorry, dear. Sorry, everyone. I’ve had too much to drink. Or not nearly enough. It’s so hard to tell. . . . But you will help them, won’t you, old thing? You can do this for them. You can do anything.”

Ammonia ignored him, all her attention fixed on me. “If I can put William Drood right, repair what damage has been done and put his personality back together again . . . will the family agree to pay my price?”

“What do you want?” I said.

“I want your Armourer to make something for me,” said Ammonia. “I want a crown like the one Molly is wearing right now. Only much stronger. I want something strong enough to keep the whole world out, so I don’t have to. So I can rest.”