The Legacy Page 8

  ‘It can protect them,’ Richard said forcefully, banging his hand down on his desk suddenly. ‘It has always protected them. Shut the protests down. Put more police on the streets.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Hillary said tightly.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Richard said.

  ‘Hundreds of people are missing, Richard.’ She looked at him searchingly. ‘Taken away in the middle of the night. Hundreds. I told you weeks ago that we needed to communicate more with their families, their friends.’

  ‘Families? No one has families any more, Hillary,’ Richard said irritably. ‘No one cares about anyone else any more. You know that. We have communicated, anyway – we have told people what they need to know when they need to know it.’

  ‘You mean you have told people nothing,’ Hillary said stiffly.

  ‘What else would you have us do?’ Richard stared at her insolently. ‘We’re getting to the bodies as soon as their identicards reveal their temperature rising. Would you have us spend our time instead counselling next-door neighbours and writing long letters to their estranged sisters and brothers?’

  ‘No, Richard, I would have you get rid of the problem,’ Hillary said. ‘They’re calling them the Missing. People want to know what’s going on. I want to know what’s going on. What do we tell the newsfeeds? That Longevity is safe? That no one is getting ill? They’re beginning to report on the missing people. We’re losing control here and you have given me no answers.’

  Richard stood up heavily; he needed height over Hillary. He felt tired. So tired.

  Hillary looked back at him boldly; he could see in her eyes that she suspected the balance of power was up for grabs. ‘Do I need to bring in scientists from other countries?’ she asked pointedly. ‘Do The Authorities need to take over Pincent Pharma?’

  His eyes narrowed; he could feel adrenalin course through his veins. How dare she! How dare she question him! ‘Don’t you dare,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Then I need answers. Proper answers. Do your drugs not work, Richard?’ She was looking at him triumphantly, mockingly. She had no idea, Richard realised, how close she was to the truth.

  ‘Of course the drugs work,’ he lied.

  ‘I know they work,’ she said exasperatedly, ‘but you must tell me the truth. I don’t buy your story of a virus, Richard. Longevity protects us from viruses – we all know that. What’s really going on? Are the conspiracy theories true? Are you testing new drugs on an unsuspecting public?’

  If only, Richard thought. If only it were that simple. He closed his eyes. When you are weak, attack – it is the best defence. That had always been his mantra. So why now, when he needed it, was he lost? Why could he not see what to say, what to do? Even Hillary could see his weakness – he was exposed, vulnerable. He needed his armour, needed to wrest control. He thought frantically. Then suddenly, like a dove appearing over Noah’s ark, an idea occurred to him – an idea that would get Hillary off his case, that would give him time. It was brilliant. He smiled to himself. He felt his energy returning.

  Grimly, Richard leant towards Hillary, his eyes serious. ‘You really want to know what happened? Why people are ill? Why they might be dying in other countries?’

  ‘I really want to know,’ Hillary said, her eyes wide with expectation.

  Richard stood up and sighed for dramatic effect. It was a bold lie that he was going to tell, and one that could backfire spectacularly – but only if managed badly, and Richard never managed anything badly. Slowly he turned to Hillary, his expression serious. ‘You’re right. There is no virus.’

  Hillary nodded victoriously. ‘As I suspected. Go on,’ she ordered him.

  Richard paused for dramatic effect before continuing. Then he took a deep breath. ‘There was a contamination,’ he said, his voice low. ‘The Underground . . . They contaminated a batch of Longevity.’

  Hillary’s mouth fell open. ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. The terrorists, the vile, blood-hungry terrorists got through our security system somehow,’ Richard said distastefully. ‘I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure. But we’ve checked and . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t know how it happened, but it did.’

  Hillary’s mouth was still hanging open. ‘How many?’ she gasped. ‘How many tablets did they contaminate?’

  ‘We’re trying to establish that. Enough to have gone out of this country. Enough to mean that there are going to be more . . . bodies.’

  Hillary was staring at him uncertainly; he felt his shoulders rise slightly, felt his chin lift. He had the upper hand again. For now. For a little while.

  ‘I should have told you before.’ He looked at her intently. ‘I’m sorry, Hillary.’

  Hillary took a deep breath, then let it out. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I see.’

  ‘The fact of the matter,’ Richard continued, warming to his theme, ‘is that we are in the grip of the worst terrorist attack of the past two hundred years. And people need to know that. You want the trust of the public? Get more police on the streets. Assign Pincent Pharma more guards. We need to root out the Underground once and for all and we need to work together. I need all Catchers and police working directly for me until the Underground is destroyed.’

  Hillary blanched. ‘We will work together Richard,’ she said. ‘But the Authorities are still in charge.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ Richard said impatiently, ‘but if the Underground has its way there won’t be anyone left to be in charge of. We have to destroy them, Hillary. We need to do it now.’

  Hillary nodded uncomfortably. ‘Very well. I’ll let the Chief of Police and the Catchers know,’ she said, her voice quieter. ‘So what do we say? What do we tell the people? Foreign governments?’

  Richard allowed the corners of his mouth to curl upwards. ‘We tell the truth. A population gripped by fear is a good thing. It will help us. If we encourage people to suspect their neighbours then it will make them welcome police swooping in at the dead of night. We will take bodies at the first sign of illness instead of when it’s taken hold. A slight fever and we’ll swoop. If there are protests, we’ll take the protesters. We’ll take anyone who challenges us, Hillary, and the ones left will let us do it because they will be afraid.’

  Hillary nodded silently. Then she looked up at Richard tentatively. ‘The batch that was contaminated,’ she said. ‘Is there any way of knowing . . . who might be . . . where the batch might have . . .’

  Richard nodded seriously and did his best not to smile. It had almost been too easy. She was afraid, just as everyone else would be, and in fear she turned to him, the benefactor, the saviour. He reached into his desk drawer, took out a blister pack of tablets and handed them to her. ‘Take these. You can be sure they’re safe,’ he lied. The contamination may have been fabricated, but if the drugs had been weakened by endless copying, who knew if this batch was any safer than another?

  Hillary took them. ‘Obviously it’s because of my job,’ she said quickly. ‘And we’ll need more safe batches for all key workers. Police, Catchers, and so on.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard nodded smoothly. ‘They’ll be with you tomorrow.’

  ‘And you’ll find out how many? We need to be prepared. I need to talk to my counterparts around the world.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Richard said. ‘You’ll be the first to know when we’re sure of the scale of this disaster. I’m very grateful, Hillary. I know this isn’t easy for you.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Hillary said, standing up. ‘But at least you have finally told me the truth.’

  ‘I’d have told you sooner if I could,’ Richard said, looking at her earnestly, ‘but a whiff of this could turn to mass panic.’

  ‘It could,’ Hillary said, nodding, frown line etched into her forehead.

  ‘However, mass panic would enable more pressing measures to be taken,’ Richard continued. ‘We have to prevent another attack. We need to focus all our resources on crushing the Underground once and for all
. All its supporters. Anyone who has ever shown any sympathy for their cause.’

  ‘Road blocks, more police, limited movement, more surveillance – yes,’ Hillary nodded.

  ‘Protesters taken into custody, gatherings banned,’ Richard suggested. ‘Opt Outs and suspected Underground sympathisers rounded up.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Hillary said, standing up. Richard pressed a button on his desk and immediately a guard appeared to escort her out of the building. ‘Well, thank you, Richard,’ she said as she left. ‘We’ll work together on this. From now on. You tell me everything.’

  ‘Everything,’ Richard assured her, waiting until the door had closed behind him before he picked up the phone. He had bought some time; now he had to use it wisely. ‘Derek,’ he said. ‘Come up, please. We have some work to do.’

  .

  Chapter Eight

  Julia Sharpe poured herself another gin and tonic and returned to the plump cushions of her sofa. It was 4 p.m. – an in-between time that Julia had, lately, begun to fill with a drink and programme downloads. In truth she’d have preferred wine, but that wasn’t an option nowadays. Nothing that had travelled more than fifty miles was allowed, and the recent cold summers had put a stop to the south-east’s wine production. But gin was OK. It did the job.

  She’d already been to the gym, had her hair done, made sure that the house was in order, organised supper, popped round to a neighbour’s for coffee and read a chapter of her book, but still the afternoon and evening stretched out in front of her like a long journey. Her husband would not be home for another four hours and even when he did return, he would bring little to alleviate the monotony. He would pick up the paper, sit on his chair, put on a CD, and wait to be called for dinner. Then they would eat, perhaps talk about their day, retire to the sitting room for more reading, watching, listening. Then bed. Then morning again. But at least he would be there. Few people were married these days – monogamy seemed almost laughable when lives stretched out indefinitely. But Julia didn’t like to be alone and her husband had no time to find anyone else to fall in love with. And they were fond of each other. They offered each other comfort.

  She took a large gulp of her drink and enjoyed the kick, followed by the warmth that seemed to fill her body – every bone, every vein. She felt her spine relax, felt her shoulders fall back. She switched on the computer. Immediately she heard tense and agitated voices on the news feed, but she quickly navigated away. Too depressing – full of stories of whole populations starving to death, of water restrictions being increased. Nothing, of course, on the subject that was on everyone’s lips: the Missing. Stolen away in the middle of the night, Julia had heard. There were rumours of screaming, of disease, of plague. But that was ridiculous – why people insisted on suggesting such things when everyone knew that illness didn’t exist any more was a mystery to Julia. Were they so bored that they had to invent catastrophes just to keep themselves going?

  She leant back on the sofa and closed her eyes briefly, allowed herself to remember sun-drenched holidays, decorating her house, spending time with friends. Her life had always been comfortable. Enjoyable. And yet somehow, at some point – she couldn’t remember when – something had happened. Perhaps it was simply external factors – tighter and tighter rationing of energy didn’t help – but Julia knew that wasn’t it. It was inside. A growing dissatisfaction. A growing gnawing in her stomach, questioning . . . but questioning what? The point of it all? Of the endless days, the endless trips to the hairdresser’s, the endless reading of newspapers that rarely had anything new to say? Did she use to find them interesting? She didn’t know.

  And it wasn’t just her. She saw it all around her. The enthusiasm people had for high-risk sports. The way some, like Julia herself, obsessed over every new wrinkle as though it were a sign of a more fundamental decay, while others had given up, letting everything go, becoming heavy and grey and wrinkly because they just didn’t care any more. Perhaps they couldn’t care any more; perhaps the demands of eternity were simply too much.

  And then there were those who had given up completely. The very few who took extreme sports to the true extreme – jumping out of buildings, jumping off bridges. There had been more of those recently, Julia couldn’t help noticing. Perhaps that was what the missing people really were – people giving up hope, giving up their own existence because they didn’t know what to do with themselves any more.

  Julia shook herself. This was why she didn’t like to be alone, she reminded herself – because she thought too much. It was something that had crept up on her. A few years ago, thinking about things usually entailed trying to decide which outfit to wear to an event, or which neighbours to invite to a party. These days it meant allowing dark, disturbing thoughts to wash over her; it meant questions that made her uncomfortable, conclusions that left her despondent and numb. Ever since the Surplus girl . . . Anna . . . Ever since she’d discovered her hiding in her garden room, such fear in her eyes, the boy with all his bruises . . .

  No. Stop, Julia told herself firmly. What she needed was something cheerful to focus on, to keep her vaguely entertained without worrying her unduly. After all, her husband, a senior Authorities manager, had assured her that everything was under control, that she shouldn’t listen to gossip. And what were the newsfeeds if not serious gossip?

  No, a chat show was a far better idea. The presenters felt like friends; they were more familiar than anyone else she knew. She enjoyed their company.

  She found the channel and sat back, smiling.

  ‘It just shows, doesn’t it, what a difference a bit of extra care can make.’

  ‘It certainly does. In fact, it’s inspired me to get myself fit again.’

  ‘Again? You were fit once?’

  The audience laughed – or perhaps it was canned, Julia wasn’t sure. The presenters were like an old married couple – a couple who still held affection for one another. Like Julia and Anthony, only . . . better. They flirted, they bickered, they laughed. They made it look so easy. Perhaps she should try harder, Julia thought to herself. Perhaps she should be more coquettish.

  ‘But now to a more serious subject.’

  ‘Serious? You can do serious?’

  ‘Of course I can do serious.’ The man affected a hangdog expression and there was more laughter.

  The woman shook her head, rolling her eyes and smiling. ‘Come on, Michael. Now you may have heard rumours about people going missing – or perhaps you’ve read about the Missing in a newspaper. There are lots of theories doing the rounds regarding who these people are and why they’ve been taken away, aren’t there, Michael?’

  Michael nodded gravely but there was still a twinkle in his eye. ‘There certainly are, Sophie. You know, I heard one rumour that people are being taken to trial a new civilisation on the moon!’

  Julia squirmed slightly in her chair; she’d heard that particular rumour and had even asked her husband about it.

  ‘Now that I would like to see.’ Sophie smiled. ‘But more seriously, we all want to know what’s going on. Just yesterday, lawyers acting for the families of an alleged Missing person said that the failure of the Authorities to inform them of what was happening and the denial of any access visits was a breach of human rights, which have fallen down the agenda in recent years.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Michael said, shaking his head – Julia wasn’t sure whether it was in incredulity or sympathy. ‘So we thought we’d get Hillary Wright, the Secretary General of the Authorities, on the show, to tell us what’s really going on. Didn’t we, Sophie?’

  ‘That’s right, Michael. So, shall we get her on?’

  Julia’s eyes widened. Hillary Wright? On a chat show? She rarely appeared on television and when she did it was a carefully orchestrated Authorities press conference. Perhaps it was the only way to quell the rumours once and for all. Yes, that must be it.

  ‘I think we’d better, don’t you?’

  Sophie smiled and the ca
mera panned over to a door, through which Hillary Wright walked. Julia recognised her – hers was a familiar face anyway, but Julia had met her in the flesh once at one of the Authorities’ Christmas parties. She had seemed a little cold, Julia thought, her handshake a little limp, but then she supposed a little coldness was probably required for such a high-octane job. Hillary was looking tired, a little ragged around the edges. It just showed, Julia tutted to herself – being busy might seem appealing, but it was probably utterly exhausting. Really, she was very lucky not to have many demands on her time. She could have a nap whenever she wanted.

  ‘So, Hillary!’ Sophie looked at the Secretary General, her face full of concern. ‘Can you tell us what’s happening? Are the Missing just the result of rumours, or is there something going on?’

  Hillary smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid to say that what’s going on here is that there are people out there, evil people, who wish to take away our basic freedoms – people who for various reasons want to see us suffer. These people, the terrorists who call themselves the Underground, will stop at nothing to achieve their goals, including attempted and real sabotage of the source of our freedom, Longevity drugs. At a time when we should be focusing our minds on the strategic plan that the Authorities are working on to improve the health, well-being and standard of living for everyone who lives in this great country, these people are hell-bent on creating mayhem and unrest even, I’m afraid to say, to the extent of taking away people’s lives.’ She looked into the camera and Julia’s eyes widened in fear. Longevity drugs? Longevity drugs had been sabotaged? Her hand moved involuntarily to her throat.

  ‘That sounds very serious,’ Michael said, looking rather taken aback. ‘Are you saying that Longevity drugs have been tampered with?’