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out.”
    “Understood,” said Michael.
    Patterson released Michael from against the wall. He pointed to the back of the nearest police car, with its rear bumper closest to them, and indicated Michael should take up position behind it. Michael had no reason to argue.
    In those last moments before he crouched down, Michael saw the position of two police marksmen, tucked into shadowy nooks between the other cars. He perceived them and realised there were four minds – which meant there were two policemen he couldn’t see – focussed and disciplined, keeping control over the adrenaline running in their blood.
    Beyond them, Michael perceived another mind: more intense, wild and untrained. It spewed out a fear that fluctuated between panic and terror. It was the mind of the bomber.
    From his hiding place behind the car, Michael looked out and saw the teenager with his own eyes, now only metres from him. He appeared the same as the image from the television screens, but now from a different angle and infinitely more real. He really was shaking, trembling like a frightened stray cat, desperately alone in his small space of tarmac outside the hotel, hemmed in by the building behind him and armed police in front. The shaking made it more possible to see the blue wire which emerged from the rucksack on his back, quivering in the air before it looped round and disappeared into the neck of his coat. It reappeared at the end of his sleeve and connected to something black and plastic in his hand.
    I am ready … said the teenager’s thoughts … just a gentle squeeze, that’s all it will take … but not yet … wait …
    The teenager’s thoughts changed to alarm. His head turned: he had noticed something. Michael also turned, to see what the teenager had seen.
    It was Patterson. He had stepped away from the wall and stood in the middle of the alley with his arms out at his sides and his palms open. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he called out. “I just want to talk.”
    Michael returned his concentration to the bomber.
    Ignore him … I have to wait … I have to wait …
    “My name is Sergeant Anthony Patterson from the Metropolitan Police.” He left a pause. “You can call me Tony. What’s your name?”
    The teenager did not reply with words, but his thoughts said: Stephen .
    “There’s nowhere to go,” said Patterson. “But I can help you.”
    Then go away … if you go away, they will come …
    “All you have to do is let my officers defuse the bomb,” said Patterson. “They are experts, they can bring you to safety.”
    But I have to stay …
    Stephen’s emotions trembled like his body, scared of his own thoughts as he ran the same idea over and over in his head.
    Just a gentle squeeze … it’s all it will take … but wait … wait until they are here …
    Michael wished Patterson was a perceiver. If the sergeant wasn’t burdened by the limitations of being a norm, Michael could think loud enough to transmit his thoughts into Patterson’s head so he could use that information to negotiate with Stephen. If the sergeant knew the teenager’s name, at the very least, he could use that to make a connection. But, no, it was not possible. Patterson’s mind could only think his own thoughts.
    “Why don’t you talk to me, eh?” said Patterson, his voice soothing.
    Can’t talk … won’t talk … ignore him …
    “Tell me what you want and I can help you.”
    Michael concentrated harder. Even if Stephen would not tell Patterson, his thoughts could still betray him. But there was nothing there, an emptiness in his mind which made no sense. His only thoughts were the repeated mantra, varying around the same theme, stuck in the same place like a car spinning its wheels on liquid mud.
    I’m ready … just a gentle squeeze … but not yet … wait … wait until they are here …
    Frustrated, Michael shuffled in his space behind the car, his feet scraping on the grit on the road surface. He thought it only