The Legacy Page 3

  But the Underground were keeping them safe. She knew that. During the day, she reminded herself regularly, there was nothing to worry about. As Peter said all the time, they were going to be fine. The Underground had found them somewhere to live, somewhere no one could find them. They were self-sufficient, more or less; they were protected. Everything was fine. At last, everything in Anna’s life was OK.

  Quietly, Anna padded over to the chest of drawers where a pile of Molly’s ironed clothes lay. She picked them up and, one by one, put them away. Order reassured her – she’d spent most of her life trying to achieve it.

  But at night the demons came – the terrible monsters who wanted to steal her children away, wanted to imprison them as she had been imprisoned, wanted them to hate her, wanted them to know a life without love, without laughter, without her.

  Anna had spent her childhood in Grange Hall. A Surplus Hall, it was a prison for children born illegally to parents who had signed the Declaration – a piece of paper that most signed too young to understand that in return for eternal life they would never bear children. Peter had been a Surplus too, but he hadn’t been discovered by the Catchers; instead he had been passed around Underground supporters for most of his life, hidden in attics, never knowing whether he’d be in the same place the next day or whether he’d be moved again. It was only when he was taken in by Anna’s real parents that he’d seen what family was all about and it was their love that had driven him to hand himself in to the Catchers and get himself sent to Grange Hall so that he could help her to escape.

  And now he knew no fear. Anna loved that and feared it in equal measure; loved his strength, his courage, his ability to laugh when she expressed her worries to him in a way that didn’t belittle them but made them obsolete. I am here, he would say to her. No one will ever hurt you again. But she even saw his fearlessness as a threat; she worried about his restlessness, his need to be fighting someone, something. Feared that the strength within him would eventually take him from her. From the children.

  The clothes folded away, Anna sat down next to the cot and listened to Molly’s rhythmic breathing. All was quiet. Her loved ones were near her, were sleeping, were going nowhere.

  ‘Anna?’ She looked up with a start to see Peter standing in the doorway, looking at her quizzically. ‘What are you doing?’

  She blushed. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re watching her sleep again, aren’t you?’

  Anna bit her lip. ‘I just . . .’ She sighed. ‘I had another nightmare.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Peter whispered. ‘Catchers?’

  She met his eyes – they were twinkling kindly.

  ‘Not Catchers this time,’ she said, slowly standing up and moving towards him. ‘I dreamt about Sheila.’

  ‘Sheila?’ Peter frowned. ‘What did you dream?’

  Anna closed her eyes for a moment. Sheila, her friend from Grange Hall. Was friend the right word? Sheila had been her shadow. Younger than Anna, she had turned to her for protection which Anna had reluctantly given. Sheila wasn’t strong like Anna; she had got into trouble with the other girls, with the House Matron Mrs Pincent, with everyone. Like a ghost with her pale, translucent skin and pale orange hair, Sheila had been so fragile, and yet there had been a steely quality to her, a refusal to accept her Surplus status, a determination that her parents had wanted her, that she didn’t belong in Grange Hall. And it had turned out that she was right. They’d only found that out later, after Anna had escaped with Peter, leaving Sheila behind. After Sheila had been taken to Pincent Pharma, experimented on, used . . .

  Anna shuddered at the memory. ‘I dreamt . . .’ She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cold night air. ‘I dreamt that she was angry with me. Because I hadn’t believed her. Because I’d told her she was a Surplus. I dreamt that she took Molly away to serve me right, to show me what it was like.’ Tears started to stream down her cheeks and Peter pulled her into him, out into the corridor. Then he closed Molly’s door behind them.

  ‘Sheila wouldn’t do that,’ he said gently, stroking Anna’s hair.

  ‘It was my fault she ended up at Pincent Pharma,’ Anna said, her voice hoarse. ‘She asked me to take her with me. I didn’t. I left her behind.’

  ‘You had to,’ Peter said sternly. ‘And she’s fine now anyway. She’s with Pip and Jude in London. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.’

  ‘I looked after her. In Grange Hall,’ Anna whispered. ‘When I left . . .’

  ‘When you left you were brave and strong and courageous. You saved my life. Stop this, Anna. Stop finding problems where there aren’t any.’ Peter’s voice was sterner now. ‘No one’s going to take Molly away. Not Sheila, not the Catchers, no one.’

  ‘I know,’ Anna said, wiping her eyes and shaking herself. She looked up at Peter earnestly. ‘I know that. I don’t know why I keep having these horrible dreams . . .’

  ‘Because you’re not working hard enough during the day,’ Peter said, a mischievous glint suddenly appearing in his eye – the glint he employed whenever Anna worked herself up. ‘I dug up all those potatoes yesterday and you just sat and watched.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ Anna protested earnestly, even though she knew he wasn’t entirely serious. ‘I dug up carrots. And scrubbed the potatoes. And –’

  ‘I’m teasing,’ Peter grinned. ‘Look, the dreams will stop eventually. But no more creeping around at night. You need your sleep and so do I. OK?’

  ‘You think she’s OK? Sheila, I mean. You think she’s happy in London?’

  ‘I think she’s very happy. I also think she’s her own person now. She’s not your responsibility. Not any more.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Anna nodded.

  ‘Of course I am.’ Peter grinned. He took her hand and Anna squeezed it, allowing him to lead her back to their bedroom. And if she had a sense of foreboding, a feeling that something terrible was going to happen soon, very soon, she suppressed it. Peter was right – she had to learn to trust, she told herself. She had to learn to be hopeful.

  Jude’s hand was shaking. It wasn’t nerves – at least he told himself it wasn’t. It was his cramped position which was causing his muscles to spasm, to rebel, to quiver indignantly. He took a deep breath and returned to the wires in front of him, painstakingly making connections, checking and double-checking. He was ready to upload the film, ready to show the world what he’d just seen. He looked at his watch – 4 a.m. Looking around him one more time to make certain that he hadn’t been followed, that the dark shadows beneath him were just that and not a gathering army of Pincent guards ready to pounce, he held his breath and pressed the blue button on his hand-held computer. Upload. He heard a familiar whirring, the comforting sound of the device flicking into action. And then, for the first time in three hours, he allowed himself to relax slightly.

  It had been his idea, filming the raids on Pincent Pharma. After all, they had been going on for years and nothing had ever happened – a few batches of Longevity had been destroyed but Pincent Pharma had just made more. In the battle of David and Goliath, Jude had pointed out to Pip, Goliath wasn’t just winning, he was triumphant, arrogant. They were barely making a dent. But Jude knew technology – knew how to harness it, how to make it work for him. And so he’d persuaded Pip to let him help. Initially they’d just tracked the raids through the Authorities’ network of CCTV cameras so that Pip, Jude or anyone else who wanted to, could watch the Underground soldiers bring the Pincent lorries to a halt and destroy the Longevity drugs within them. It had made everyone feel better, made them feel part of it, more entrenched in the rebellion. And then Jude realised that if more people saw the attacks, they too would feel part of the rebellion or, if not, at least they’d know it was happening. At least the Authorities and Pincent Pharma couldn’t deny it any more.

  He pulled himself up and shook out his aching muscles, trying not to wince. He hated being reminded of his physical weaknesses, of his slim frame, his pale skin.
He was nearly seventeen but still looked like a boy, not a man. Every time he glanced in the mirror he cringed at his reflection. He wanted to be strong, powerful, but instead felt like the runt of the litter, the also-ran. Peter, his half-brother, was the action hero who’d broken into a Surplus Hall to save Anna. Jude . . . Jude was just a techie.

  He heard something, a noise, and ducked down again, his heart beating rapidly. Someone was here. Who? Had he been followed? Still, silent, he crouched and waited. Then, hearing nothing more, he relaxed slightly. He’d probably imagined it. After all, he was always careful. Peter was the brave, impetuous one; Jude was the planner, the organiser. In short, the boring one, he thought wryly.

  He’d never thought of himself as boring before he’d met his brother; before he’d met Pip and joined the Underground, the resistance movement that had been set up to fight Pincent Pharma, Longevity and all it meant for humanity. He’d been a White Knight in his previous life on the Outside – a computer whiz who worked for good, identifying weaknesses in companies’ networks and offering to fix them. He did it for a price, of course, but there were others who simply took advantage of weaknesses to steal, to spy, to cause havoc. Jude had always seen himself as a benevolent protector; he’d liked that image, liked the kick he’d got every time he contacted a major corporation to let them know that he’d just hacked into their network and could, if he wanted to, empty their bank account. In return for his work he demanded a fee big enough to keep him going for a few weeks, sometimes a few months. And then he’d reward himself by going on to MyWorld. It might only have existed on his computer, but it often felt more real than the world outside. In the real world there were no young people, but MyWorld was full of them. And in MyWorld Jude was a genuine hero, popular with everyone.

  The truth was, life without it had taken some getting used to.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered under his breath as the digital film slowly uploaded. It frustrated Jude that connectivity had, in recent months, got slower not faster. Like everything these days, things were getting worse all the time. Falling energy supply, falling water supply – he’d heard that in the south-west people had been forced to start queuing for water at the municipal well. Drought had meant that food was being rationed too, and not even under the pretext of identicard choices either. But at least they could queue up openly. At least they weren’t like him, hiding in a grungy, barely habitable building where sometimes food didn’t materialise for days at a time.

  The Underground. The Resistance Movement. Jude had known of its existence all his life, but only in shadowy references. It encouraged people to have children when the world was already full – too full. It believed that Longevity drugs were wrong when Longevity had cured the world of disease, had cured man of ageing. Jude, a Legal child (certain senior Authorities’ positions came with the perk of having a child), had been brought up to loathe the Underground and all it stood for. But as he’d grown older, as he’d hankered after company, after anyone his own age to play with, his father’s arguments in favour of Longevity had seemed less compelling. And when, just two years ago, his father, Stephen, had been murdered by Margaret Pincent, his first wife, and the truth about how Jude’s legality had been snatched from his half-brother Peter was revealed, he’d realised that nothing was as it seemed. Peter, Margaret’s son and Stephen’s second son, had been born just two months after Jude, but Jude’s birth had rendered him a Surplus. So while Jude had been brought up in an affluent household, Peter had been hidden in attics, in cellars, forced to move from place to place.

  No wonder Peter was the hero, Jude thought as he watched the download bar, drumming his fingers on his thigh. And no wonder Pip hadn’t wanted Jude to join the Underground. He was a thief; his very birth had robbed Peter of his rightful legality.

  Jude shook himself and turned back to his device. Any minute now Authorities police could turn up. He had selected this place carefully – a disused factory under demolition orders, its walls and structure condemned and barbed-wire fences preventing entry. But still, that wouldn’t stop a guard or policeman if they suspected what he was doing here. And if they caught him . . . He shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about. Ever since he’d thrown his lot in with Pip and Peter, ever since he’d made the decision to join the Underground, he’d been on the Most Wanted list. If he so much as tried to use a credit card he’d be tracked, traced, caught and imprisoned or worse. The Underground might not offer much in the way of hospitality, but at least it protected him, kept him safe. He looked around cautiously then, with a sigh of relief, saw that the job was done. Quickly he pulled the wires apart, jumped down and started to sprint away.

  But as he ran through a door and what had once been a fully functioning staircase, Jude was stopped in his tracks by the sound he’d heard before. He looked around and carefully sank back into the shadows, his heart beating in his chest – from the running or from fear, he wasn’t sure. And then he heard it again. A gasping, wheezing noise. It didn’t sound like enemy guards. It wasn’t like anything Jude had ever encountered before.

  Hesitantly, he crept along the wall, being careful to stay hidden in the shadows. He was on a platform, a corridor that was now missing both of its walls. Beneath him were two platforms just like this one; beyond the gap where the other wall had been was a five-metre drop down to the central floor where disused machines sat redundant, rusting like sunken ships.

  The wheezing was getting louder. Jude thought again about running, but he couldn’t – he had to know if he’d been followed, had to know what or who was making this sound. It could be a trap, but that was unlikely. Free food would have been a better trap than the sound of someone gasping for air. Free food, if it was good, would almost be worth walking into a trap for. Pausing briefly to contemplate his concave stomach, Jude shook himself and continued edging towards the sound. He turned the corner; the sound was louder and yet he still couldn’t see anything. Frowning, he moved away from the wall to look down at the central floor, but still he could see nothing. It sounded like an animal, he realised with growing relief. It wasn’t human. Probably a dog. He listened carefully; it was coming from directly under him. Dropping down to the floor, Jude inched to the edge of the platform and lowered his head over the side, craning to see the wounded animal making the now frantic noise. And then he felt the blood drain from his face and felt his hands go clammy, because it wasn’t a dog. It wasn’t an animal of any sort. It was a woman.

  She was sitting clutching her throat, her skin tight around her hands, around her face, and she looked as though someone was strangling her, as though they were pulling at an invisible cord round her neck, because she was choking and her eyes were bulging and staring wildly, her hands scratching at the air above her head as though it might save her. But Jude could see no one pulling the invisible cord; the woman was alone. Without thinking he turned, gripping the floor he’d been standing on with his hands, lowering himself down to the platform where she sat. She saw him, but she could barely bring herself to look at him.

  ‘Water!’ she gasped.

  Jude took out his precious water bottle and after only the briefest of pauses offered it to her. She tried to grab it but her arms were flailing hopelessly. Carefully, he poured some of the water into her mouth. She nodded frantically and he poured the rest in, but as the liquid slipped down her throat, she wailed agonisingly.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Jude asked anxiously, but the woman wasn’t looking at him, she was clutching her throat again.

  ‘Water!’ she said again.

  ‘It’s finished,’ Jude said. ‘What’s wrong with you? What happened?’

  ‘Thirsty,’ the woman said, her eyes glinting now. ‘Water.’

  Jude edged back, his eyes wide, his heart thudding loudly. ‘I don’t have any more water.’

  The woman nodded, as though finally understanding what he was saying. Then, without warning, she mustered her strength and launched herself at him, taking him by surprise and toppling
him to the ground.

  ‘Water,’ she screeched. ‘Water!’

  Her hands were clawing at his neck and then her elbow was pressing into his windpipe and he couldn’t breathe. He tried to push her off but she seemed to be imbued with incredible strength – the strength of desperation, he found himself thinking – and everything started to go black. And then, without warning, the pressure disappeared. He gasped for air, choking for oxygen, rolling over on to his front, pulling himself up to all fours. The woman had fallen away from him; she was on the ground now. His throat still hurting, Jude stared at her angrily, fearfully, but then he recoiled. Her skin was drying up. Not just her skin – her whole body. Right in front of him. It looked like every ounce of moisture was literally being sucked out of her. She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes huge, her eyelids receding – like a skeleton, Jude found himself thinking. And then, with one last shriek, she fell back and was silent.

  Jude didn’t move for a minute. Shock and fear made him stay completely still as his brain tried to process what he’d seen, tried to make sense of it. Then, tentatively, he pulled himself up. His neck still felt sore, his breathing was still laboured as he crawled towards the woman. He didn’t get all the way there – he couldn’t bring himself to. Her skin had become blackened; her mouth and eyes were open, large circles that invited him to look deep inside. Instead he looked around – he wanted a tape of this, needed to know where to find the images. But there were no cameras here. He kicked himself. Of course there weren’t any cameras – he’d chosen the place because of it. He stood up on shaky legs, considered bringing the woman with him to the Underground headquarters, then rejected the idea immediately on grounds of safety and practicality. At least that was what he told himself. But the real reason was his revulsion, his terror, his desire to leave this place as soon as humanly possible and never come back.