The Legacy Read online

  Sheila appeared immediately and looked at him searchingly. ‘The phone? Why? Where are you going?’

  ‘To get someone. A child,’ Jude said. ‘The mother’s under attack. There’s no one else.’

  Sheila’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘But you can’t go. You’ll be caught. Send someone else.’

  ‘There is no one else,’ Jude said grimly. ‘I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself.’

  ‘But . . .’ Sheila stared at him helplessly. ‘But we need you here. I need you. I . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t go.’

  ‘I have to go,’ Jude said, grabbing his coat. Then he stopped. ‘You need me?’ he asked. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Sheila whispered. She was looking right at him, her face defiant, scared, beautiful all at once. Without warning Jude grabbed her, pulled her towards him and kissed her, before letting her go and running towards the door.

  ‘I need you too,’ he whispered, too late for her to hear him. ‘You have no idea how much.’

  The freezing air outside stung his skin and he pulled his coat tightly around him as he made his way through the streets. He’d memorised the address, knew he could get there using one of Pip’s tried and tested routes. London was really two places: the place where most people lived, and the place the Underground inhabited – disused Underground tunnels, little-known alleyways that Legals would never walk down, particularly after dark, the cracked, unkempt main roads that years ago had been clogged with cars and which now lay empty but for the odd vehicle driven by someone very rich or very well connected.

  Jude knew that what he was doing was rash, ill-considered; he knew that Pip would never have let him go. But he also knew he had no choice. He’d heard the crowd baying for blood; he couldn’t leave the woman and her child – he couldn’t. So instead he ran, ignoring the pounding in his head, ignoring his muscle spasms as he forced himself onwards. He took out his handheld device and searched for the woman’s address. Soon he had a live CCTV image on his screen which revealed that while the front of her house was surrounded, the back was clear. On he ran. She was only twenty minutes away, but twenty minutes was a long time when you were under siege. He ducked through an alleyway and under a disused flyover, then pulled back against a derelict building. A sign above it revealed its history: St Thomas’ Hospital. Through a gap in the boarded-up doors behind him Jude could see a blue sign, only just legible, pointing to A&E, to a Maternity Ward, to ENT. He’d never seen an old hospital before – they had all been converted long ago into apartment blocks, like the schools and universities. But this area was down on its luck – the high-speed surface rail hadn’t yet reached it and until it did, buildings like this would be left to rot.

  Pulling his eyes away, Jude listened for footsteps then carefully edged away from the hospital and ran, ducking into doorways, behind buildings, on to the main road that led to the woman’s house. Her road was on the left; a few metres before the turning he jumped over a fence into one of her neighbours’ gardens, then into hers. Here he ran to the back and, as the crowd shouted, kicked an opening in the fence ready for their escape before turning and making his way stealthily towards the house. He took out his handheld device and called her number.

  ‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice was shaking.

  ‘It’s the concierge from Hotel Sweeney,’ he said in a low voice. I need you to come to your back door. Slowly. Carefully. Don’t let anyone see you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ she said. He could see her through the back window, her outline moving into the hall. She was large, moving slowly; Jude silently willed her to speed up.

  ‘She’s coming!’ someone shouted at the front of the house.

  ‘Kick down the door!’ someone else shouted.

  ‘Legal killer!’

  ‘Terrorist!’

  The woman froze; Jude looked around desperately. He had minutes to get her out. Seconds, even. He ran to the door just as the woman got there. In her arms was a young child, his eyes wide with fear.

  She opened the door and stared at Jude. ‘But you’re just a child yourself! I thought there would be more of you,’ she gasped. ‘We’ll never get out alive.’

  ‘We’re going this way. Through the fence,’ Jude said, holding his arms out for the child. ‘You’ve got to come now.’

  The woman looked at him, then at her child, then she shook her head. ‘I can’t run,’ she said. ‘I’m not strong enough.’

  ‘Yes you are,’ Jude said through gritted teeth. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m an Opt Out,’ the woman said, her eyes shining with tears. ‘My body doesn’t renew itself and my heart . . .’ She shook her head again, then looked at Jude desperately. ‘Take him,’ she begged. ‘Take him, please. Leave me here.’

  ‘I can’t leave you here. They’ll kill you,’ Jude said vehemently. ‘Come. Now. We can get away.’

  ‘No.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I’ll slow you down. They’ll catch us.’

  A large crash made them jump and the woman grabbed Jude by the shoulders. ‘They’re breaking the door down,’ she said. ‘Go. Go now. Look after my boy. Make sure he knows I loved him. That I wanted him. His papers are in his pockets. Look after him, please?’

  Jude shook his head but the woman was already closing the back door. Reluctantly he pulled the child to him and started to run. As he squeezed through the hole in the fence he heard the crowd rushing into the house; then he ran, ran as fast as he could away from the screams as the woman surrendered to her tormentors, holding the child tightly to his chest to silence his whimpers, to stop from crying out himself. All he could think about was Sheila when she was little, being taken away from the parents who loved her on a night like this. All the children who’d been wrenched from loving homes to be imprisoned, murdered, enslaved.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he whispered. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

  As he rushed back to the Underground, stumbling with tiredness, his arms barely capable of carrying the weight of the child, he realised he had to make his promise good – he had to make sure everything would be OK. His body was crying out for sleep, for food, for water. But as he dashed madly through the door of the Underground, completing the security checks, explaining the child’s presence to the Underground guard at the door, he was met with Sheila’s eyes, wide with fear as she put down the phone. ‘I don’t want to answer the phone any more,’ she said, her bottom lip quivering. ‘I don’t want to, Jude. I don’t like it here. I hate it.’

  ‘I know,’ Jude said, handing the child to the guard. ‘I know. But we’ve got to be strong. We’ve got to keep fighting.’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said quietly, standing up as the phone started to ring again.

  Her eyes were swimming with tears; as they started to cascade down her cheeks, she fell against him. Jude held her tightly, his forehead creased, his eyes dark with worry. ‘Leave the phone for a while. I’ll answer it,’ he said softly. ‘You go and get some rest. OK?’

  Sheila nodded, her body juddering slightly. ‘I don’t need rest,’ she said stoically. ‘Let me do something else. I can man your computer, answer messages.’

  ‘My computer? But I turned it off when I went out,’ Jude said hesitantly. His own security protocol meant that computers were always shut down when unattended for more than ten minutes. He was religious about it; he of all people knew how vulnerable networks could be.

  ‘So I can turn it on again,’ Sheila said quietly. ‘Can’t I?’

  Jude looked at her uncertainly.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ Sheila asked, her lips forming a little pout. ‘Why did you teach me to use it if you never let me on it? I can help, Jude. Let me help.’

  Jude didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, eventually, he nodded. He didn’t have a choice – Sheila was right. She was offering to help and he needed all the help he could get. ‘OK,’ he said, his voice rather strangled. ‘But don’t – don’t do anything stupid.’

  Sheila took his hand and gave
it a squeeze. ‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘I . . .’ She looked at him searchingly as though about to say something then apparently changed her mind. ‘I won’t,’ she repeated instead, then ran lightly from the room.

  ‘Jude,’ Pip said, suddenly appearing at the door. He looked even more exhausted than Jude felt; his eyes had dark circles round them. ‘Jude,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Where have you been?’

  Jude glanced up. ‘I just had to pick someone up,’ he said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. ‘We’ve got another child. He’s with the guard.’

  Pip looked at him carefully. ‘You went out? That was very risky, Jude.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m not just a techie,’ Jude said, irritation suddenly getting the better of him. ‘I can actually help people as well.’

  Pip didn’t say anything for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Of course you can,’ he said quietly. He sighed heavily. ‘Jude, I . . .’ He trailed off for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. ‘I want to tell you something. Something important. I . . .’ He looked at Jude intently, then took a deep breath. ‘I . . .’

  ‘What?’ Jude asked impatiently. ‘Is it really important, or is it about books again? Because people are under attack and the phone is ringing because they need our help, and someone’s got to answer it.’

  Pip smiled gently. ‘Of course they do. You’re right, Jude, as always. You are . . .’ He put his hand on Jude’s shoulder. ‘I’m very proud of you, that’s all.’

  Jude felt a jolt of electricity shoot through him at Pip’s words – no one had ever said they were proud of him before. No one. But there was no time to bask in the praise, no time to thank Pip or to wonder why the words meant so much to him. Instead he met Pip’s gaze for a second, nodded, then raced to the phone.

  ‘Hotel Sweeney,’ he said. ‘How’s the weather with you today?’

  .

  Chapter Eleven

  Richard Pincent was scared. It was not an emotion he knew well, not one that sat comfortably with him. Over and over again he paced the floor of his sumptuous office; over and over again he stared out at the London skyline, the dark, cold sky punctuated by tower blocks, by monuments to man’s success, man’s power – his power. He had bestowed the vista of eternity on mankind and now its very existence was threatened.

  Even as he watched out of his window, he knew that people were on the streets marching. They were calling for the Underground to be found and bombed; suspected sympathisers were being locked in their houses and torched. A few months ago he would have sat back and enjoyed the spectacle, but now it simply made him more fearful, because eventually the mob would turn on him. Eventually they would discover his lies, realise that he was the enemy and not the Underground, and when they discovered the truth they would come to his doorstep.

  He lifted his head miserably and looked out of the window, the darkness and howling wind an apt reflection of his own thoughts. Was this how the Pharaohs felt as the Egyptian empire crumbled into dust? Would Pincent Pharma be a relic like the pyramids, explored by ignorant tourists snapping photographs, understanding nothing? Would Richard die here, in this large white tomb, to be discovered centuries later? He shook his head. Who would find him? Who would be left to find him?

  Sighing, he turned to his computer and pressed a button, bringing it out of hibernation.Work had to go on. Memos must be answered, the veneer of normality maintained.

  As if on autopilot, he started to decline appointments, agree budgets, delete anything that didn’t interest him. Perhaps if he continued as normal things would be normal, he found himself thinking. But he knew this was a fallacy. Others might believe his lies, but he could no longer deny the gravity of the situation, could no longer avoid the terrible truth. He was the captain of the Titanic; he alone knew about the iceberg, knew that the ship was sinking, that no one would survive.

  He felt sick. Felt like crying out. But as he wondered to himself if ever a man had felt more wretched than he, his attention was drawn by an icon at the bottom right-hand corner of his screen telling him that he had a network message. Messages were rare – all were filtered by his secretary and her team, ensuring that only the essential got through. But this message was even more curious because it had bypassed the usual route – it had come direct to him instead of through the Pincent server. Only Derek Samuels had a direct line to Richard’s mailbox; only his messages arrived in this way. And yet this message was not from Derek. He looked at the time badge – the message had arrived just seconds before. Apprehensively, Richard opened it. And then his heart lurched.

  ‘If you want the circle of life, I can give it to you.’

  Richard stared at the message, blinked several times to make sure he wasn’t imagining it, then looked around the room fearfully. Was this a joke? Had someone been watching him? No, impossible. There were cameras in his room now – introduced after the Underground broke into the building when Peter had worked here – but only he had the code to watch the images captured. So how did this person know? Who was it?

  He sat, unable to move for several minutes. Then tentatively he leant forward.

  ‘Who is this?’ he typed back, his heart thudding in his chest.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. If you want the circle of life you can have it. But there’s something I want too.’

  Richard’s eyes widened, then he pulled his chair towards his desk. It was a trick. It had to be a trap. But what kind of trap? And what if it wasn’t? What if this person really had what he so desperately needed? If they had a lifeboat, if they had the ability to mend the ship, then he had to accept their offer. Didn’t he?

  ‘I want it,’ he typed slowly, tentatively. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ll come to that. You know you gave it away once. If you want it back, you’re going to have to do as I say.’

  Richard’s mind was racing. He’d given it away? Was it a riddle?

  ‘I gave it away? I don’t understand.’

  ‘No. I imagine you don’t. You had a ring, didn’t you? Peter’s ring?’

  Richard’s stomach lurched. Peter’s ring. His grandson – the grandson Richard thought was dead until he was discovered by the Catchers. The ring had been with him, had been taken into custody, had found its way to Richard because of its initials – AF. Albert Fern. It had been Albert’s ring. Given to Margaret, then to Peter. And Richard had never even thought to look at it properly. It was an ugly thing – he remembered Albert wearing it. Was it really the circle of life? Why would Albert have wanted to protect it? Why was it so important?

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture it, turning it over in his mind. On the inside, Albert’s initials. On the top, an engraving – a poor one, as if Albert had done it himself. Of a flower. Some kind of flower.

  Richard opened a drawer and pulled out Albert’s notes and scribblings. Frantically, he turned over pages until he found it. A sketch only, but it was unmistakable – the flower. But what did it mean? He picked up his phone. ‘Derek,’ he said urgently. ‘Derek, I need you in here now.’

  A minute later, Derek was by his side, his eyes widening as he saw the messages. ‘How?’ he asked, his face paling as he realised it was his own security system that had been breached.

  ‘That doesn’t matter now,’ Richard said quickly. ‘What matters is the ring. What was it Albert said when you took him away? That the circle of life had to be protected? Could he have meant the ring? Do you think this is a hoax or could the ring really be important.’

  Derek didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he shook his head slightly.

  ‘Derek?’ Richard asked, frowning. ‘Derek, what is it?’

  Derek looked up, his eyes narrowed, deep in thought. ‘He knew,’ he said simply.

  ‘Knew what?’ Richard asked impatiently. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Albert,’ Derek said. ‘He knew. Before I took him. The way he reacted. He was expecting it.’

  ‘Expecting to be killed?’

  ‘He said that you�
��d never find the formula. He said you could search everywhere but you’d never find it. The way he said it, I think he knew you would try to find it. I think he was prepared.’

  Richard nodded, frowning as he frantically tried to cast his mind back, tried to remember. He remembered the ring, remembered seeing it in Maggie’s jewellery box one day. He’d assumed it had been there for a long time, that Albert had given it to her long before. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to draw attention to it because of the inevitable questions – about Grandpa, about what had happened to him. It was the ring she’d given to Peter, the ring Richard had held in his hands.

  ‘The ring was Maggie’s though. How did he get it to her?’ he asked, trying to make sense of what he’d been told. ‘Maggie never saw him before he died.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Derek said. ‘She went to school, didn’t she? There were opportunities. He must have had it engraved with the formula, then given it to her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard breathed. ‘Of course. The eternal circle of life. He put the formula on the ring.’

  ‘And you had it all that time,’ Derek said.

  Richard looked at him, his teeth gritted. ‘And I’ll get it back. You’ll get it back for me.’

  Derek didn’t reply, but Richard barely noticed. All he knew was that his prayers had been answered. The ring. He would have the ring and he would have his salvation. Everything would be restored.

  He turned back to his computer. ‘You have the ring?’ he typed. ‘Then you also know the whereabouts of my grandson?’

  Catchers had been looking in vain for Peter and Anna for a year, ever since Peter had humiliated him in front of his employees, in front of the media. Richard’s heart quickened at the thought of finally finding him, of wreaking his revenge.

  ‘You need the circle of life, not Peter,’ the message came back.