The Legacy

by Gemma Malley

  Hillary nodded gravely. ‘I am sorry to say so, yes,’ she said. Julia took a sharp intake of breath. ‘We have been investigating this for the past two weeks, which is why we have been unable to say anything until now. Obviously this is devastating news. But the Underground – the terrorist organisation that hates science and life – managed to break into Pincent Pharma and sabotage a batch of the drug.’

  Michael and Sophie looked at each other blankly. ‘But . . . but . . .’ Sophie stammered. ‘But what does that mean? Are we safe? How do we know which drugs?’

  Hillary cleared her throat. ‘We are safe, Sophie – let me make that absolutely clear,’ she said. ‘It was a one-off event, and security is now even tighter at Pincent Pharma. But the criminals who perpetrated this crime are at large and the Authorities will not rest until they are caught.’

  ‘The Missing?’ Sophie gasped. ‘Are they . . . Did they . . .’ She appeared unable to end the sentence. Death was not a word used lightly; it didn’t happen, except to Opt Outs, soldiers fighting wars and people in faraway countries with bad sanitation. It was dirty. It was alien.

  Hillary shot her a tight smile. ‘An investigation at Pincent Pharma has revealed that Underground supporters did in fact break through its highest security during a power cut and managed to tamper with one batch of Longevity. The drugs have, of course, been withdrawn, although tragically some innocent people have been made very ill. But our investigation has revealed that the Underground could do this because they have their tentacles in every street of this land. Far from being a small group, the Underground has grown in numbers and is a real and present danger to our civilisation and, indeed, our lives. They hate our freedoms, hate our right to live indefinitely. They want only to cause havoc, to destroy innocent lives. And so we are upping surveillance, increasing our number of raids – because it is only by stopping the Underground that we can protect our citizens.’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Julia heckled anxiously. ‘Have people died?’

  Sophie seemed to have the same thought. Regaining her composure slightly, she sat up a little straighter. ‘So, to get this straight, what exactly are the Missing? Are they people with Underground links who’ve been taken away or are they people who’ve been affected by the sabotaged drugs?’

  Hillary smiled tightly. ‘As we understand it there have been just over two hundred people affected by the Underground’s despicable actions,’ she said, ‘and these people are receiving state-of-the-art medical attention from the doctors at Pincent Pharma. Their families are being kept informed at all times. But in the main, what we are seeing with the so-called Missing is anyone with suspected links to terrorist organisations being questioned and held until we have a clear picture of the Underground’s network. Naturally we have had to suspend our usual rules and laws governing the arrest and questioning of suspects. The day these terrorists attacked Longevity, the day they tried to end our way of life, was the day they lost any right to the criminal justice system that was established to protect our citizens. These are dangerous people and what we need is to get them off the streets, to question them, to find out what they know and to prevent this kind of catastrophe from happening again.’

  Sophie and Michael glanced at each other. They looked pale and Julia felt a sudden kinship with them. They were sharing this moment – this moment that had changed everything. ‘So the rumours of men turning up in the dead of night, taking the ill away?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Are actually our security forces turning up to take away suspects,’ Hillary said tightly.

  Michael looked at her searchingly. ‘And there really is evidence that all these people are associated with the Underground?’ he asked. ‘Because we’ve had calls from hundreds of people who say that the Missing are friends of theirs, innocent people who –’

  ‘These are not innocent people,’ Hillary interrupted angrily. ‘They are terrorists. And as such, we are not interested in calls from people who think that they are their friends. Terrorists do not have friends – they have targets and people they use. But we will not allow them to achieve their aims. We will do whatever is necessary to protect the sanctity of human life.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sophie nodded, her eyes wide. ‘So are there more, do you think?’

  ‘Terrorists? Absolutely,’ Hillary said. ‘We have been living with blinkers on, I’m afraid, thinking that everyone in this country appreciates what it has to offer. Evidently there are people who seek only to destroy what we have built up, and our job now is to stop them. No stone will be left unturned in the search for these terrorists. We will hunt them down and we will punish them. And we will punish anyone who helps them. We urge anyone who knows of any Underground sympathisers to let the Authorities know. The time for tolerance has gone.’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ Michael said. The camera zoomed in and a trickle of sweat could be seen wending its way down his forehead. ‘So in terms of those affected by the . . . in terms of the . . . do we know, are we safe? Are our drugs safe?’ He looked terrified. Julia swallowed uncomfortably waiting for the reply; she imagined that everyone else watching was doing likewise.

  Hillary’s face seemed to shift slightly, as though her mask was slipping. Dread crept through Julia’s heart. If Longevity wasn’t safe, then . . . everyone was vulnerable.

  ‘We are confident that it was only one batch that was affected by the attack,’ Hillary said eventually. ‘However, we know that people will be worried. Which is why we have a special helpline number to call if you have any concerns. In the meantime it is of paramount importance that everyone continues to take their Longevity drugs as normal. The risk of ingesting sabotaged drugs is very small, but as we all know, not taking the drugs is . . . is not an option. For anyone.’

  Michael wiped his forehead. ‘So we’re safe?’

  ‘Everyone is safe,’ Hillary said, nodding to reinforce the point.

  Sophie exhaled loudly. Julia felt her own shoulders relax slightly. ‘And other countries?’ the presenter asked. ‘There have been reports of Missing around the world.’

  Hillary nodded, and her expression was serious. ‘Unfortunately, the contaminated batch included some drugs that went overseas,’ she said, lowering her head sadly. ‘But I can assure you that the numbers affected are small, and we are working with other governments to crack down on worldwide terrorist rings.’

  ‘Thanks, Hillary,’ Sophie said warmly.

  ‘And Longevity Plus?’ Michael asked, smoothing his hair back as he spoke, his forehead now sweat-free. ‘We’ve all been waiting on tenterhooks for the launch, so is there any news? I’m sure our viewers would love to know.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they would, and I’m very happy to say that we are at the final testing stage. Obviously we would never launch a drug until we were absolutely convinced that it was one hundred per cent safe,’ Hillary said, her expression more relaxed now.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Michael said, his white teeth showing as he spoke. ‘Do we know when it’s going to be hitting the shelves, so to speak?’

  ‘Very soon,’ Hillary said brightly. ‘Pincent Pharma are working night and day on it. But their hard work is absolutely worth it. Longevity Plus will, I believe, revolutionise the way we feel.’

  ‘It’s really that good?’ Sophie asked, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘It will do for the skin, the soul, the spirit, what Longevity does for the rest of our bodies,’ Hillary said. ‘Cell renewal will become energy renewal, skin renewal.’

  ‘Well, I can’t wait then,’ Michael said. ‘And thank you, Hillary, for sparing the time to talk with us today.’

  ‘It’s always a pleasure, Michael, Sophie,’ Hillary said, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Now, in association with Magic Mix, it’s time for our cooks, Eleanor and Gary, to rustle up a feast in ten minutes . . .’

  Julia took a deep breath. She felt as though she’d been on a roller coaster, taken to the brink of panic before being brought safely back to ground a
gain. One batch. What if they had done more? What if there were more attacks? Her life, her world, had suddenly revealed vulnerabilities that she had never seen before, never even considered.

  But she was safe. The Authorities would catch whoever was responsible. They wouldn’t let it happen again.

  Downing the rest of her drink Julia closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again and started to watch the cookery slot.

  .

  Chapter Nine

  Roberta Weitzman leant against the wall briefly to catch her breath. She’d been feeling out of sorts for days now and had finally made an appointment to see the doctor to get her Longevity levels checked. It was an irritation – she was busy, always busy, but her fatigue was getting in the way of work; only that persuaded her to make an appointment. That and the reddish spots that had appeared on her stomach. A reaction to something, she had no doubt. Nothing serious. Not . . . She shook herself. She wasn’t ill. She hadn’t been one of the unlucky ones. And she wasn’t the sort to get hysterical either. She just felt a bit tired, that’s all.

  The doctor’s surgery was on the fifth floor of an office block in Maida Vale. She’d lived in the area for over thirty years and, like most people, had visited the surgery only a few times – for Longevity level checks, for a contraceptive implant, and when she was younger, for a broken bone which had required a plaster cast. Even now the visit felt like a waste of time. Some people talked about eternal life in such strange terms, as though they had trouble filling the hours, the days that stretched ahead, but Roberta couldn’t understand them at all. She had so many things to do – books to write, paintings to do, sonatas to learn on her new piano. Her mother had been an Opt Out – a concept that terrified Roberta. No one else’s mother had died; no one else had been forced to watch their beloved parent disintegrate gradually, losing both mind and body until there was nothing left. When her mother had died, all her ideas had died with her – all that potential, all the thoughts that hadn’t yet been written down, argued for, worked through. And however much she’d protested to the contrary, she’d feared her death – Roberta had seen it in her eyes. ‘I’m a burden on you,’ she’d say sadly, and Roberta wouldn’t know what to say because it was true – she was a burden of her own making. No one wanted to look after a rotting old lady, not even her own daughter.

  Roberta was relieved to find the lift working and pressed the button, heaving herself in when the doors opened and pressing ‘5’. She waited as it trundled slowly upwards before stopping with a jolt and wheezing as the doors opened again, as though it were all just too much effort. She knew how the lift felt and found herself writing a story in her head about a building where the lift, the stairs, the rooms themselves had feelings, that they grew tired of ferrying and containing the humans who used them, decided to rebel and do things their way. Smiling to herself, she gave her name to the receptionist and sat down to wait. In front of her was a television screen with serious-looking people discussing something that they obviously considered of the utmost importance. Idly Roberta glanced at it. Along the bottom the headlines scrolled past: ‘Missing confirmed as part of terrorist attack to sabotage Longevity. Crackdown to arrest Underground agents . . .’

  She frowned. Roberta rarely listened to the news, but even she found herself wanting to know more. She had heard about the Missing, had dismissed it as rumour-mongering. But had there really been a terrorist attack? The doctor poked his head out of his door and called her name and she got up reluctantly. The fatigue hit her by surprise, forcing her down again before she could gather herself and, shaking her head in embarrassment, walk into the doctor’s office.

  ‘Ms Weitzman. And how are you today?’

  Roberta smiled flirtatiously; it was instinct to do so. ‘Oh, I’m OK. Just need my levels checked, I think.’

  The doctor nodded, turned to his screen.

  ‘Let’s just have a look at your identicard reader, shall we?’ He looked at her file and keyed in her code. Then he frowned.

  ‘You’ve been tired?’

  Roberta nodded. ‘A little. But then I have been burning the candle at both ends, so to speak.’ Another flirtatious smile. He was actually quite attractive, this doctor, she found herself thinking. She might suggest a drink. Later. When they had both finshed work.

  ‘Any other symptoms?’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘While you’re here.’

  Roberta uncrossed and crossed her legs, then stifled a yawn. Maybe she’d forget that drink after all; even conversation was flooring her. ‘No,’ she said, a note of resignation in her voice. ‘Oh, apart from a slight rash. But I think that’s more likely to be my soap powder.’

  ‘I see.’ The doctor was still looking at his screen; eventually, he turned and bestowed another smile on her. ‘Well, I think you need a booster jab and then we’ll up your levels, shall we?’

  ‘Oh, marvellous,’ Roberta smiled, relieved. A booster jab. She’d be herself in no time.

  She rolled up her sleeve and held out her arm and as the doctor pulled out a syringe, she returned to her story. It would be the lift that started it, she decided – began the revolution. It would tire of going up and down all day, carrying people. First it would reject them, push them out. Then it would decide it wanted to travel sideways, diagonally – to go wherever it pleased. It would urge the stairs to follow suit. The stairs would be apprehensive, nervous of what might happen, but eventually would . . . She looked over at the doctor. Everything had suddenly become blurry. Her eyes wanted to close. She felt like the air was heavy around her, forcing her backwards.

  ‘I think something might be wrong,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I feel more sleepy than before. Are you sure you gave me the right medication?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor said soothingly. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.’

  He picked up the phone and dialled a number. Roberta could feel herself slipping in and out of consciousness and did everything she could to focus on staying awake. Something was wrong and she wanted to know what it was.

  ‘It’s Doctor Brandon from Surgery 561,’ she heard him say, his voice low, irritable almost. He sounded like he was a long way away even though she knew he was only two metres from where she sat. ‘I’ve got another one.’

  Her eyes closed – she couldn’t fight much longer. She was drifting away. It was too strong for her – sleep beckoned.

  ‘Be quick,’ he said as she lost consciousness. ‘I’ve got patients waiting.’

  .

  Chapter Ten

  Jude picked up the phone. ‘Hotel Sweeney. How’s the weather with you today?’

  ‘Cloudy in the north, but getting warmer all the time,’ came the reply. It was a woman and she sounded tense, but that was nothing new. Since Hillary Wright’s appearance on television a few days before, the phone had been ringing non-stop and all the callers sounded tense. Pip had manned the phone for the first day and night and Jude had listened to him tirelessly trying to explain to people that Hillary had been wrong, that the Underground hadn’t set out to murder huge numbers of people, that they still needed support and help. By morning he had looked exhausted, pale, wiped out. Then came the news that people were beginning to hand children over to the Authorities in fear for their lives. Two small children had been left at the door of the Underground; Pip had managed to find someone to take them in, but a fear hung in the air – a fear that they were losing, that something terrible was going to happen.

  Jude had taken over the phone the next day – it was the least he could do, particularly as Pip had left with the abandoned children to take them to their new home. But two days on, with barely a break, he was beginning to feel like he was fighting a losing battle.

  ‘State your business,’ Jude said, as always.

  ‘I’m number 6492. I’ve just had a brick through my window,’ the voice said breathlessly. ‘A group of people ran past shouting, calling me a murderer. I’m afraid. I’m hiding a . . .’ She lowered her voice even more. ‘I have a child here.
I don’t know what to do.’

  She sounded terrified. ‘Are you known to be a sympathiser?’ Jude asked.

  There was a pause. ‘I’m an Opt Out. Of course I’m known to be a sympathiser. People treat me with contempt or pity most of the time. But not this, not violence. What shall I do? Can you send protection?’

  Jude looked at the database. South-east London. Numbers of potential guards had already dwindled to barely a hundred across the country, and there was no one near her. All the available guards in London were already deployed; the capital city had the highest density of Opt Outs and Underground supporters, all of whom were now clamouring for help. ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said bitterly. ‘No one wants to be associated with an Opt Out these days.’

  ‘OK. Can you lock your doors? Sit tight until they lose interest?’

  ‘You think they’re going to lose interest? Listen.’ The woman held the phone up; Jude could hear distant chanting: ‘Surplus out! Surplus out! Kill the traitors!’ Suddenly a separate voice could be heard, a man with a hoarse voice. ‘Hand him over, lady. We know he’s in there. Dirty Surplus, stealing our water, contaminating our drugs! Hand him over and you won’t be hurt.’

  Immediately the chant changed to, ‘Hand him over! Hand him over!’

  ‘You see?’ the woman said in a strangled voice. ‘Do you think they’re going to go away?’

  Jude closed his eyes. He was exhausted – the kind of exhaustion that leaves you shaky, that makes your head feel as though it will explode if you don’t shut your eyes.

  ‘No, they’re not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘OK, sit tight. I’m sending someone over.’

  ‘How quickly can they get here? And won’t they get lynched by the mob?’ the woman asked anxiously.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jude said, swallowing uncomfortably. ‘Just stay where you are. Keep your son safe.’

  The phone went dead and Jude stood up. Immediately the ringing started again. ‘Sheila,’ he called out urgently. ‘Sheila, I need you to take over the phone. I have to go out.’