The Legacy

by Gemma Malley

Richard’s eyes narrowed. Then he shook himself. First the ring; everything else would follow. ‘Very well,’ he typed. ‘The ring. Name your terms.’

  He read the message that came back and smiled, then laughed. He felt so happy, so relieved, he could have danced. He was being asked for so little for so much. His heart lifting, he turned to Derek. ‘I want every Catcher to be given Peter’s picture and told to search only for him. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir,’ Derek said, his eyes glinting.

  ‘Good,’ Richard said, leaning back in his chair as relief was replaced by delighted malevolence. ‘I think we need to up the stakes. I want the Underground destroyed beyond any chance of repair. And in the meantime, I’ve got a visit I want to make. Call the prison, will you? Let them know I’m on my way.’

  There was a bang at the door and Peter, who’d been dragging potatoes into the store, looked up in surprise. Anna, who’d been changing Molly’s nappy – a makeshift affair of tea towels, loo roll and cotton wool – turned round and caught his eye. He could see a flicker of something cross her face – anxiety, he presumed. He shot her a reassuring look, then went to the door, opening it cautiously.

  But it was only the wind. Of course it was, Peter thought ruefully. They never had visitors. They were miles from anyone.

  ‘There’s no one there?’ Anna asked. She sounded worried as always.

  Peter rolled his eyes. Ever since he’d received a message from the Underground that morning he’d been restless, agitated. He’d assumed the message was from Jude; it had come from his address. But there had been no sign-off, no banter, just a request. It made him feel insignificant – increased his feeling of isolation, of being cut off from everything.

  ‘Believe me,’ he said, more sarcastically than was warranted, ‘if we were in any kind of danger we’d know about it. Pip would tell us right away.’

  Anna looked at him piercingly. ‘You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.’

  Peter blanched slightly – he hadn’t meant to. Not really. Then he shrugged. ‘It’s just that Pip said we were going to be up here for a few months,’ he said. ‘We’ve been here a year now.’

  ‘I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it? I mean, it’s lovely up here. The children can play outside and we’re left alone . . .’ She met his eyes; he could see that she wanted to say more but was loath to in case he reacted badly. They’d had this conversation so many times lately, Peter always venting his boredom, his frustration, and Anna getting more and more anxious. It was his fault, he knew it – he should be happy up here. But he couldn’t be, not so far away from the action, not so far away from everything.

  ‘Left alone. You said it,’ he said gruffly, knowing as the words left his mouth that he should have kept them in. It wasn’t Anna’s fault he felt out of the loop, wasn’t her fault that he’d been turning Jude’s message over and over in his head all morning. What did it mean? Why hadn’t he said more? Had Pip told Jude not to tell him? Were they gradually severing the link? Did they not think Peter was useful any more?

  ‘We’ll go back eventually, you know we will,’ Anna said gently, standing up, moving towards him, putting her hand on his shoulder. He knew he was in the wrong and yet she was mollifying him, was being so understanding. He loved her more than he could ever put into words, and yet . . .

  ‘I have to go. I got a message. I have to go to London.’ He said it quietly, braced himself for Anna’s response. The message had said to send his ring down to London via their watcher. Not to ask any questions, not to tell anyone else about the message. It hadn’t said to bring it himself. It hadn’t suggested that Peter should leave the safe house.

  But that only made it more important to Peter that he go. It was time – time for him to be in the thick of things again. He was sick of being at arm’s length from the Underground, sick of being out of the loop, treated like a child. He’d heard about the attacks; he’d heard about Underground sympathisers being stoned on the streets. But he hadn’t heard it from the Underground itself, only from the newsfeed. He should be there to fight, not safe and sound in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘What?’ Anna’s hand had left his shoulder; now, instead of quietly supporting him, she was towering over him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they need me. Because I want to be part of the Underground again.’ His voice was tentative, like a child asking for something it knows it isn’t going to get.

  ‘You are part of the Underground. It was the Underground’s idea for us to be here, remember?’ Anna moved away; he knew she wanted to end the conversation.

  ‘We’re not doing anything,’ he heard himself say, unable to leave it, unable to accept his frustrations. ‘Except grow food and eat it. People are disappearing. The Underground has sabotaged Longevity. Things are happening and we should be part of it.’

  ‘No we shouldn’t,’ Anna said defiantly. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘It’s not dangerous. Come with me. We could all go. We could live in the Underground headquarters, like Jude and Sheila.’

  ‘Peter, no,’ Anna said. ‘Can’t you see what we’ve got up here? We’re self-sufficient. We don’t need anyone. We don’t have to hide – not really. If people are getting ill, why would you want to risk one of us getting ill too? Risk the children getting ill? If the world is slowly drying up, why would you want to leave our well?’

  She looked at him for a few seconds, her look the same one Peter remembered her giving him when they first met. Haughty, insecure, desperately trying to stay in control.

  But they weren’t in Grange Hall any more.

  ‘It’s not up to you,’ he said quietly. ‘There are things happening in London. Important things.’

  ‘There are important things happening here too,’ Anna said, her eyes flashing now. ‘Like Molly learning to crawl. Like Ben learning his numbers. And we’re up here for a reason, remember, because we’re safe here, because your grandfather and the Authorities can’t track us down to kill us all.’ She was on a roll now, her expression darkening as she spoke. ‘But I suppose those things aren’t important to you,’ she said, angry now. ‘I suppose being in London where the “action” is is more important than ensuring the next generation survives.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Peter started to say, but trailed off. He couldn’t tell her the truth. If she knew the truth, she’d read the message – she’d know that Jude had not asked him to come. Would she realise that his not asking Peter to come was the very reason why he felt compelled to go?

  ‘If you want to go to London, you go without us,’ Anna said, her voice low. Then she picked up Molly, took Ben by the hand and walked out of the room, leaving Peter staring at the space they had filled just moments before.

  .

  Chapter Twelve

  Margaret Pincent sat very still. She could feel the dryness of her clasped hands, could feel the overwhelming fatigue begin to take hold. It was all she deserved and she welcomed it – welcomed death with its release, its finality. Other convicted murderers were taken off Longevity quickly – a short, sharp shock – but not her. For her they’d strung it out bit by bit, little by little, supposedly because being Richard Pincent’s daughter bought certain privileges. But Margaret suspected that this was yet another punishment. Her decline was so gradual that she was hardly aware of it and questioned every symptom, not sure whether it was in her head, whether she’d lost her mind, whether it was ever going to end.

  But now, now she could feel it. She was an old woman. Twelve months ago she’d been the House Matron of Grange Hall – feared, respected, obeyed unquestioningly. Now she was slowly decaying. Rotting flesh, collapsing organs, inevitable death – these were the things that lay ahead. These were her future.

  She’d do it again if she had the chance – she’d kill him again and again. Stephen, her former husband, had taken their child from her, made him a Surplus. He’d made her believe Peter was dead – her little boy, the older boy she’d tortured unknowingly, like all
the others she’d punished for not being him, for not being her baby. For that, Stephen had deserved more than just death; she regretted that she hadn’t made him suffer more.

  But her own decay still revolted her. In a world where death had been averted, mortal, frail flesh was feared and despised. Margaret felt the same abhorrence for her condition that she saw on the faces of her guards, their eyes squinting, their lips curled as though they were facing a plate of rancid food. She was vile, disgusting. She smelt of decay – something that the grey walls surrounding her seemed only to enhance. Death was a revolting spectacle, a vile concept. Even her doctor found it hard to look at her, as though her symptoms might be catching, as though she might tarnish him with her weakness.

  She deserved it all, she knew. It was this knowledge that stopped her from curling up in a ball and howling inconsolably. It was this knowledge that gave her the smallest sense of control, for she had brought it on herself. She was no victim.

  In a notebook that Margaret kept by her bed, she kept a running list of all the changes she’d experienced since being imprisoned, since her Longevity dosage had gradually been reduced. First had been her skin – dry and rough to the touch, then sagging, as though it had given up any pretence at being fit for purpose. Cuts wouldn’t heal, sores appeared out of nowhere, her eyelids hung heavy over her eyes.

  Her hair was the next most obvious symptom. Undyed, her roots were growing through white as snow – such a contrast to the black she was accustomed to, the black strands which she pulled into a bun each morning. Black and white. Old and new. Now and then. The ‘now’, the whiteness, was growing longer each day. Margaret had read once that hair continued to grow after death; she wondered how long for, and why.

  The cold was unbearable. Her muscles, previously a form of internal heating, their strength spreading warmth around her body, were wasting away and her limited fat stores were unable to protect her, helpless against the relentless cold of the prison. Margaret Pincent, who had always prided herself on her hardiness, who had continually rejected the requests of her staff at Grange Hall for one more radiator, for an increase in the thermostat, now found herself unable to prevent her limbs shaking, shivering against the icy air that surrounded her.

  Some of the symptoms were more welcome than others. Myopia, Margaret’s virtual blindness, was a comfort to her, for who would wish to see a prison clearly? Who would wish to look upon the face of her gaoler, the dull grey walls of her cell, the vile slush they told her was food? Grange Hall had been grey too but it had been her grey, her vile slush, her domain.

  Others symptoms filled her with fear, with desperate loathing. Worst of all were the nightmares which accompanied her every time her eyes closed. Memories dredged up from years and years ago now haunted her: her mother, white and lifeless, staring at her from her bed; her grandfather, who’d promised to look after her and had killed himself instead; her baby son, snatched away from her before she could hear his first cry. Everyone had abandoned her. Everyone she had ever loved.

  She picked up her notebook. It was easier during the day. During the day she could focus on facts – facts and truths and revelations. Only at night did her demons have free rein to plague her, to make her cry out in pain, to make her anguish so unbearable. Pushing the pages away from her so that she might see a little more clearly, she began to write. Today her breathing had started to deteriorate – her breaths had become rasping, her chest compressed. The day before her bowels had failed her, soiling her bed linen and humiliating her so much she would have taken her own life if she could have done.

  Oh Peter! Oh my son!

  She sighed and pushed the notebook from her; even writing his name was too much, made her wounds too fresh. She would never speak to him, would never see his face again.

  The letter from the girl had arrived just days before. Margaret had still not recovered from the feeling of hope that had seemed to physically lift her body up when the guard had given it to her. Her feet had left the floor, she’d been sure of it. But seconds later, the descent to earth had seemed to crush her organs, her bones, her mind, her soul. He was not coming. He would not acknowledge her.

  Anna’s letter had been kind, but that had made it worse. Margaret despised the girl – for taking her son away, for showing him the happiness that Margaret herself never could, for being with him when she could not. And she despised her because after all this time, after all that Margaret had done, Anna still could not turn from her completely. Unlike Peter, she could not ignore Margaret’s letters, and this only revealed how weak she was. Margaret had always hated the weak; they reminded her of herself. Peter might hate her, but in a strange way she almost drew comfort from the fact. He knew his mind. He was strong. He was a survivor. Worth dying for, worth the suffering . . .

  Leaning against the wall, she heard the familiar sound of heavy footsteps coming down the corridor, then her door opened fractionally.

  ‘Grub’s up,’ a voice said. Margaret peered at the large figure in the doorway. She caught his eye and saw him shrink back.

  ‘Put it down, please. Over there.’

  Even in prison, Margaret did her best to keep command.

  The prison guard shuffled over and put the food on her table, then leapt back behind the doorway again. It was a cheap, rickety table, so different from the large, authoritative desk she had sat behind at Grange Hall. The desk that Surpluses had clung to as she beat any hope, any self-worth out of them. The desk that had contained her gun for so many years – a gun she’d never expected to use. Until Stephen . . .

  The man began to shut the heavy metal door that separated her cell from the corridor outside, then stopped momentarily.

  ‘You always eat in here, alone,’ he said, looking at her suspiciously.

  Margaret let out a small sound of displeasure that this man felt able to address her directly, felt no fear at asking her such a personal question. At Grange Hall no one had asked her anything directly.

  ‘I was just wondering why,’ the man said after a few seconds of silence. ‘I’d have thought you’d want to get out of here, is all. Canteen’s just down there.’

  ‘The canteen,’ Margaret said icily, enunciating each word carefully, ‘holds no attraction for me.’

  She had been alone all her life and she saw no reason to change now.

  The man nodded; he seemed in no hurry to leave.

  ‘What is it?’ Margaret asked sharply. ‘If you have something to say, spit it out.’

  Even now she had no patience for time wasters, for dawdlers, for anyone who did not live their life according to order and rules. It used to be her rules that governed everyone around her and she missed that.

  ‘I just wondered . . .’ The man frowned, looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Wondered what?’ Margaret stared at him insolently.

  He took a deep breath. ‘What it’s like,’ he said quietly. ‘To die. To know you’re going to die.’

  The question shocked Margaret, silenced her for a minute or two. No one ever mentioned death, not even here in prison. The word was skated over, euphemisms used in its place as though the very word could contaminate.

  ‘It makes me sick with fear,’ she said eventually, shooting a glance at the guard. She was beyond lies, beyond any pretence. ‘Is that what you want to hear? I hate myself, I hate what I have done. And yet I fear the end. I fear nothingness.’

  The man nodded uncomfortably. ‘They say,’ he said, looking down, ‘they say that people are dying. Getting ill.’

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘And who are they? Fanatics? No one dies. You know that.’

  She had heard the rumours, of course. As much as she tried to ignore the other prisoners she still brushed up against them on occasion, in the bathroom, on the corridor. But she believed none of it.

  ‘Authorities say Longevity was contaminated by the Underground. Say they made people ill. But no one’s come back yet. Not one of the ill. My next-door neighbour – she’s never come back.�
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  Margaret looked at him carefully. The Underground. Terrorists. Evil men. But evil men who had kept her son alive and were now poisoning Legals. Right and wrong had ceased to have meaning, she realised. Everything had shifted. She took a deep breath. ‘Your name,’ she said. ‘I don’t know your name.’

  ‘John,’ the man said.

  ‘Well, John,’ Margaret said, ‘my grandfather used to tell me that the only people who fear death are the ones who haven’t lived.’ She surprised herself with the statement; she’d forgotten it until now.

  ‘And you have? Lived, I mean.’ he asked.

  Margaret laughed darkly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t lived. And that is my torment. That is my pain.’

  She sighed and turned to her food as the door shut with a loud clunk. It was the usual vile slop, enough to keep her going but no more, and she ate it unenthusiastically. She put the bowl on the floor then leant back on her bed, allowing her eyes to close momentarily.

  The rap on the door surprised her – an hour couldn’t have passed, could it? She looked at her food suspiciously, looked around the room as though she might find a clue somewhere. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. Perhaps . . .

  ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  The door opened slowly. It was John again. ‘You’re here already?’ she asked.

  He looked down at the bowl, then back at her. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  Margaret looked up in shock. ‘A visitor?’ She had not had one visitor in all the time she’d been in prison.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I . . . Just a moment. Just one moment, please.’

  It’s him. It’s Peter. He’s come.

  No. Pull yourself together, woman. It’s not him. It will never be him.

  Desperately Margaret ran her hands over her white hair, looked down at her frail body, smoothing down her overall. Then she held out her shaking hands to be chained together and, trembling with anticipation, wobbling on frail legs, followed the guard down the corridor.