The Declaration Page 19

  And then? And then . . .

  Margaret felt the familiar feeling of bile rising up the back of the throat as she remembered the fateful day, seven months into her pregnancy, when she discovered the horrific truth. The truth that made her scream out, ‘No! No, it can’t be!’ over and over again, unable to take it in, to comprehend it. The truth that had rendered her willing to kill. So willing, in fact, that she’d even bought a revolver for the very purpose, but she had been unable to use it, even on herself, because her husband had put her under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Nursing, he’d called it, but she’d recognised it for what it was. He was afraid of what she might do. And he was right to be afraid.

  The horrible, desperate truth was that he’d had an affair. An affair that had started several months before their wedding and was still going strong a year later. An affair that had resulted in a pregnancy, two months before her own, and then the birth of a healthy baby boy who, arriving before Margaret’s own son, snatched the Legal title for himself, rendering her own child a Surplus. The legality of her marriage did not protect her child, she discovered too late. One child, her husband was allowed, and no more.

  It was too late to terminate the pregnancy. In some regions, no time was considered too late – long needles would be injected into swollen bellies to poison the unborn child, forcing the mother to give birth to her dead baby just hours later – but not here. Not in this civilised corner of the world. No, here, the baby would live long enough to be born and would then be packed off to a Surplus Hall to live a life of servitude.

  But not her son, Margaret swore to herself. She wouldn’t let them do it. As they took him away from her, just minutes after he was born, she cried out for someone to help her. He couldn’t live as a slave. She wouldn’t do that to her own son.

  And finally, after the birth, her husband took pity on her and agreed to help. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps he shared her belief that death would be better than life as a Surplus, but he agreed to take care of the situation. The boy was still his son, he accepted, and he would let him die an honourable death rather than live a life of dishonour, of shame. He even let Margaret say goodbye, to clutch the baby to her chest one last time and feel the warmth of his skin against hers, before he was taken away for ever, leaving her cold, empty and bitter.

  Now, Margaret felt nothing but contempt for Surpluses. Each new Surplus reminded her of what she had lost, of what her son had lost. They reminded her of what she had been forced to sacrifice because of her husband’s mistress, that woman whom she hated to the bottom of her heart. What right did these Surpluses have to one moment’s enjoyment, when her son lay in a grave somewhere? What right did any of their mothers have to bear a child? None, Margaret thought angrily. Surpluses had no right to anything but shame for their Parents’ Sins. For everyone’s Sins. And it was her mission in life to avenge her son’s cruel fate by ensuring that each and every Surplus in Grange Hall endured a life that was not worth living. She would not tolerate any Surplus enjoying anything approaching a normal life when her own poor child had been denied it.

  She thought she’d done such a good job with Anna too. The girl really did feel the shame of her parents’ crimes. Until that Peter had come along.

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed as she thought about him. Evil boy. He would pay for this. They both would.

  Slowly pulling herself back into the present, forcing herself to push all thoughts of her betrayed child from her head, she turned the pages of Anna’s journal, shaking in outrage at the blasphemous thoughts that the Surplus had dared to commit to paper.

  On the Outside I won’t be a Prefect. I won’t be set to be a Valuable Asset either. I don’t know what I’ll be on the Outside. Just an Illegal, I suppose. With a thudding heart Mrs Pincent continued down through the paragraphs, bristling with anger when Anna referred to the injections she’d given Peter, referred to her overheard telephone conversation. She’d have to make sure this journal never got into the wrong hands, she realised. The Authorities wouldn’t understand that she’d only been planning to put him down for his own good – for everyone’s good. Even if the escape had proved her right.

  She continued reading, noting down that a neighbour had helped them by supplying floor plans to Grange Hall. Well, that neighbour would regret it. They couldn’t be too hard to track down, and when they were, they’d see what a prison cell looked like from the inside, not just from a map.

  Then her lip curled up in anger as she read Peter’s amazing.

  ‘Peter is a Surplus,’ she muttered. ‘A dirty, disgusting Surplus. He’s . . .’

  And then she frowned. Peter was adopted – she hadn’t known that. It was odd, really. Who would want to adopt a Surplus? But that wasn’t the bit in the journal that really drew her eye. It was the ring. The ring that he was supposedly found with as a baby. A gold ring called a signet ring . . .

  Margaret’s eyes widened briefly, then she shook herself. It was impossible.

  But it was here, written in black and white: he was found with a ring. With the letters ‘AF’ on the inside. With a flower engraved on the top of it.

  Slowly, she put the journal down, and turned to her computer, the only computer in the whole of Grange Hall, turning it on and waiting for it to whirr into life. She went through the laborious password process, a rigmarole that was imposed on any Authority-owned system, and finally plugged Peter’s name into the Surplus network. But to her annoyance, a small red flag appeared by his name. Access Denied.

  Mrs Pincent frowned. Omnipotent in Grange Hall, controller of everything from the Surpluses’ rations and treatment to their training and punishments, she resented any sign that her power did not extend outside its walls; any sign that the Authorities did not hold her in the esteem with which she held herself.

  Irritably, she turned off the computer and picked up the phone.

  ‘Central Administration,’ she heard a woman say. ‘Please state your business.’

  ‘It’s Margaret Pincent here from Grange Hall,’ she said briskly. ‘I need the file of Surplus Peter. The one who escaped.’

  There was a pause as the woman on the other end of the line pressed some keys on her computer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘That file is classified. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  Mrs Pincent frowned in anger.

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ she snapped. ‘And I don’t care if it’s classified – I need it. Do you realise who you are speaking to? This is Margaret Pincent. I am the House Matron of Grange Hall, and I want to know where he came from. I want to —’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said again, not sounding sorry in the least. ‘That file is classified, and you don’t have access to it. If you would like special circumstances taken into account, we have an appeals procedure, which takes fourteen working days from receipt of form 4331b. Would you like me to send you a copy?’

  Mrs Pincent pursed her lips. ‘No, no, that’s quite all right, thank you.’

  Margaret put the phone receiver down. Would no one tell her anything? She needed to know where that Surplus scum came from. Needed to know how he came across a gold signet ring. If he was a thief as well as a Surplus, then she would kill him herself. She would torture him until he cried out for death, and she would enjoy every minute of it.

  Then an idea came to her. Not a pleasant one, but one she hoped might work. Slowly she lifted the telephone receiver again and dialled a number from memory.

  ‘Stephen, it’s me,’ she said, forcing herself to keep her voice steady and even. ‘Yes, thank you, I’m well. I trust you are too. Stephen, I have some important information for you . . . No, I can’t tell you over the phone. Can you come to Grange Hall right away? Good. That’s very good. Thank you, Stephen . . .’

  ‘That’s all they’ve got – Bloomsbury? Do they know how big Bloomsbury is?’

  Frank shrugged. ‘That’s all I’ve got here. Check every house, it says.’

  ‘An
d these are the geezers who think they know it all? I thought they were called Intelligence. Doesn’t sound like they’re too intelligent to me.’

  Frank sighed. ‘Look, let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ he said, rolling his eyes at his colleague, Bill. ‘When you’ve been a Catcher as long as I have, you stop worrying about the Intelligence, as you put it. Soon as we start showing some of the neighbours we’re serious, we’ll soon flush ’em out. You got the tools?’

  Bill raised his eyebrows. ‘When do I go anywhere without my little box of tricks?’ He smiled maliciously.

  ‘All right then, let’s get to work,’ Frank said. ‘Nice houses around here, actually. Might grab ourselves a bob or two as well as the Surpluses. And people in nice houses don’t half squeal quickly once they experience a little bit of pain. I reckon we’ll be done here by the end of the day.’

  Her parents hadn’t hit her. No one had told her she was stupid, or useless, or unworthy.

  But the truth was, she wished they had. Anna knew how to deal with beatings and harsh words. When she knew she deserved them, they felt almost like a release, like a penance that enabled her to keep living.

  Anna had once heard Mrs Pincent say ‘You can kill them with kindness, you know’ to one of the Instructors, when she didn’t know Anna was listening, and Anna hadn’t known what she’d meant at the time, but she did now. She had never realised that kindness could be so painful, never known how agonising it was to be loved.

  Instead of shouting at her, or punishing her because of the journal, her parents and Peter had just stopped talking for a moment or two, then quietly, kindly, asked her what she’d written in it. And then her mother had smiled brightly and said that she was sure it didn’t matter, and that Anna shouldn’t worry, but Anna did worry. She knew it did matter. She knew that everything mattered.

  And now she and Peter were in the cellar, and her parents had said it was because it was comfortable down there and that everything would be fine, but Anna knew that they were hiding because before they knew about the journal, her parents had said that they didn’t need to hide as the curtains were drawn and, anyway, no one would be looking for escaped Surpluses here. And she knew that her parents were worried because her father had a vein like Mr Sargent’s, just above his right eye, and it was throbbing. And now they were going to the country that very evening, now that she’d told them about the journal, even though they hadn’t been planning to go to the country until a few days later. Even though earlier her father had said they’d be safer here.

  The cellar was accessed through a trapdoor in the kitchen, which was hidden by a rug underneath the table. Peter told her that it used to be a coal cellar when people heated their houses using fires, but there wasn’t any coal there now.

  There was a sofa down there, which turned into a bed, and a big armchair which could also be made into a bed, but it took longer and it wasn’t as comfortable. Peter had shown her everything when they’d first got down there, and it reminded Anna of his first days at Grange Hall, except that back then she’d been the one showing him the ropes. Peter said he’d hidden in the cellar before, and he almost looked excited when he said it, like this was an adventure or something, instead of a nightmare that was entirely her fault.

  For a long time, she hadn’t said much, because she didn’t know what to say, so she’d just let Peter tell her all about the cellar, including the chairs and the tins of food and the bucket behind the curtain which you could use as a loo and the opening in the road where the coal used to be poured in, and where they could get out if the Catchers came, if the Catchers got into the house.

  And that’s when she started shaking.

  ‘What will happen to us if they catch us?’ she asked him, her voice small and hesitant. ‘What will happen to the Small, and my parents?’

  Peter looked away.

  ‘They won’t,’ he said firmly, but Anna could tell he was scared too.

  ‘You should have just left me there,’ she said quietly. ‘Then you’d all be safe and the Catchers wouldn’t be coming. It’s all my fault.’

  Peter turned round to face her fully, and Anna saw that his eyes were flashing.

  ‘It is not your fault,’ he said. ‘It’s my fault. It was my escape plan, so I should have thought of everything.’

  He turned away from Anna, then immediately turned back again, his eyes desperately seeking hers.

  ‘You’re the one that matters, Anna, not me. They’re your parents, not mine. I’m just lucky they took me in. You might be a Surplus, but I’m a double Surplus because my own parents didn’t even want me. I owe your parents everything, you have to see that. If anything goes wrong, it’s my fault.’

  Peter was blinking furiously, and as he saw her look at him, he dropped his eyes to the ground, and turned his body away from her slightly in embarrassment.

  Anna frowned, deep in thought, then she took his hand tentatively, thinking as she did so about the boy who had come to rescue her, the orphan boy who had imagined their friendship before they’d even met. And she thought about his fighting Charlie, fighting the Instructors, fighting everyone and everything, for her, for her parents, for a chance to be loved, or liked, or just to be. And then she thought about all the time she’d spent at Grange Hall, trying to please Mrs Pincent, trying to be the best Surplus, the most Valuable Asset, just so that Mrs Pincent would like her and tell her that she wasn’t completely unwanted after all. And she realised that she and Peter were the same, really. That without each other they were so alone it hurt. That they needed each other like flowers needed the sun. And she knew that she would follow him anywhere, that stories about angry roses and two-headed children didn’t scare her any more, but that losing Peter did, more than anything.

  ‘Peter, you didn’t even know about my journal,’ she said, her voice breaking slightly. ‘And as a matter of fact, I owe you everything. More than everything, actually.’

  She cleared her throat awkwardly and looked up at Peter. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d just be Surplus Anna. I’d be nothing. If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have even known what it’s like to have a friend . . .’

  She trailed off, unable to express what she felt so strongly inside, unable to explain that her feelings for Peter had made her angry with the world because it had allowed him to grow up without love, made her angry with Longevity because no one deserved to live more than him.

  So instead, she just looked at him unblinkingly, and allowed his eyes to sear through hers, to see her thoughts, her fears, her hopes.

  They looked at each other for long, silent seconds until Anna’s head was pounding because she’d never looked at anyone like that before, had never seen into someone’s soul. And as she stared at him, Anna realised just why Surpluses were trained to keep their eyes cast downwards at all times, because she felt at that moment as if she knew everything there was to know.

  Then, just as she was about to look away, Peter opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘I love you, Anna Covey,’ he said, his voice barely audible. And slowly, clumsily, he leant forward, and his lips found hers, and as Anna felt him kiss her awkwardly, she knew that she wasn’t a Surplus any more. And nor was Peter.

  Surplus meant unnecessary. Not required.

  You couldn’t be a Surplus if you were needed by someone else. You couldn’t be a Surplus if you were loved.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Stephen looked as awful as he ever had, Margaret Pincent noted with some satisfaction. His flesh filled his shirt completely, and his trousers dug in to his belly painfully. His skin was red and blotchy, and his eyes were watery, as if swimming with the copious amounts of alcohol he consumed on a daily basis. She shuddered to think she was ever married to him.

  ‘So, you have some information for us?’ he said briskly. ‘You know, it’s very inconvenient for me to have to trek all the way out here. Couldn’t you have come to London?’

  Mrs Pincent stared at him.

  ‘Sit down
, Stephen,’ she said calmly, closing the door behind him and locking it, just for good measure. She did not want any interruptions. Not today.

  ‘I see your office is still a dump,’ he was saying. ‘Can’t you get those Surpluses to clean it for you, maybe even give it a lick of paint?’

  ‘I prefer it like this,’ Mrs Pincent said, still staring at him, and sitting down at her desk, her seat of power. ‘It creates an environment of fear. Fresh paint can be too . . . welcoming.’

  Stephen shrugged.

  ‘So, the information,’ he continued, ‘I assume it’s about these missing Surpluses?’

  Mrs Pincent nodded.

  ‘And you couldn’t tell the Catchers direct? Margaret, I run a big Department, you know. I don’t usually get involved in this level of detail.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Mrs Pincent’s tone was sarcastic and Stephen looked at her curiously.

  ‘You know I don’t. I run the police force, the Catchers, immigration, the prisons . . . I don’t have time for anything.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Pincent’s eyes narrowed, and Stephen looked at her blankly. ‘How very interesting.’

  ‘Margaret, whatever it is, just tell me, and I’ll be off. And perhaps you should take a holiday – you look dreadful. Do they give you holidays here?’

  He smiled affably, but Mrs Pincent didn’t return it. Slowly, she stood up.

  ‘Stephen, what do you know about the boy?’ she asked. ‘The Pending boy who escaped. Peter.’

  Stephen turned round immediately.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Why?’

  Mrs Pincent scrutinised his face, then walked towards the window behind her desk, which was covered with a thin grey blind, like every other window at Grange Hall. There was something he wasn’t telling her, she just knew it. ‘Do you know his background?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I don’t. You think I have time to worry about the background of Surpluses?’

  ‘No, just this one. His file is classified.’

  She turned round and saw that Stephen was looking at her irritably now. But she could also see that his eyes had fear in them. That she had asked a question he was afraid to answer.