The Legacy

by Gemma Malley

  ‘Yeah,’ Jude said on autopilot, then, rounding up the children, he assigned rucksacks to Sheila and the supporters, picked up his computer, silently pointed the way and followed them out.

  .

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the Cut was busy that morning, bustling with men and women having their hair coloured and dyed, wigs fitted, eyelids injected with botox and skin rubbed with almond oil. As the world outside descended into chaos, In the Cut was a sanctuary of civilisation, of peace, of denial. No mob rule here, no checkpoints, no fear to grip them – just dim lights which cast flattering shadows on clients as they sat back on comfortable chairs, in this temple to the god of beauty, of self-preservation.

  Julia Sharpe flicked over the pages of her e-magazine, but her eyes weren’t focusing on the articles or pictures that it contained. Instead she was staring ahead at her reflection in the mirror, fearful, afraid. No rash. There was no rash. She was safe. But for how long? Would she be next? Two of her neighbours had been taken in the night – were they terrorists or had they taken the contaminated drugs? She went to the same pharmacist as one of them. Would she be next? How would she know?

  Forcing her eyes away, she found herself looking surreptitiously at the woman reflected in the mirror next to hers. Her name was Sylvia and she was wearing a mask – a protective mask that had been explicitly prohibited by the Authorities because there was no need for them, because those selling them were profiteers, because the rumour of a virus was sedition. There was no illness. It was impossible. It was the work of Underground propaganda.

  Julia looked away; it unnerved her.

  ‘So, the same colours?’ her hairdresser Jim was asking her. Julia looked at him vaguely.

  ‘I’m sorry? Oh, colours. Yes. Same as usual. Thank you.’

  She forced her eyes back to her own reflection, to the wrinkles under her eyes, the drooping jowls she so despised. Was it her imagination or did her eyes look tired – not just the skin around them but the irises themselves? Then she shook herself. She was imagining it. Everyone was going mad, caught up in fear. It was what the Underground wanted. She would not fall for it.

  She scratched her arm then, realising what she was doing, stopped herself. The itch was imagined. Next she would start to believe the prophecies that were being spouted on street corners about the end of the world, about the eternal winter coming finally to an end.

  Eternal winter? There was a reason for the cold weather – something to do with the sea. Everything had a rational explanation. She would not allow herself to fall so easily into the insanity that appeared to be gripping the nation.

  She was having her hair done. What could be more normal than that?

  Clearing her throat, Julia tried to think of something to say – one of her usual topics of conversation: her bridge evenings; the cost of petrol; the new, ugly developments being erected for immigrant labourers which were a blot on the landscape and a constant reminder, as her husband regularly remarked, sighing, that the small island of Great Britain was simply getting too full. She usually enjoyed her conversations with Jim – enjoyed the opportunity to regale him with her opinions as he listened and nodded, never butting in to disagree with her as her friends and acquaintances so often did; never shaking his head and telling her that she didn’t understand as her husband always did.

  But today her mind was full of everything and nothing, hope and despair, neither of which she’d countenance. It made small talk a little difficult.

  ‘So how are you today?’

  ‘Me?’ She forced a smile. ‘Oh, I’m . . . I’m fine, thank you. Very well.’

  Her eyes strayed involuntarily back to Sylvia’s reflection. Jim saw and grinned. ‘We’ve got some of those if you’re interested,’ he said conversationally. Julia’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You . . . have?’

  ‘Sure. They’re infused with tea tree oil. Protect you from, you know, pollution, dust, whatever really. They’re getting very popular.’

  ‘Pollution?’ Julia nodded, felt relief flood though her. People weren’t afraid of getting ill, not rational people. She wasn’t ill. There was nothing to worry about.

  ‘Oh, thank God. I thought they were . . . I mean, you hear about people panicking about these supposed Missing, and I thought . . .’ She met Jim’s eyes and her voice trailed off. Thought what? That people were worried about dying? That the Authorities couldn’t be trusted? That the vans that came in the night, glimpsed through windows, filled with grim-faced policemen wearing masks, were not prison vans rounding up Underground supporters? No, these were not things she thought. She refused to think them, refused to let herself even recognise awareness of them.

  Jim was twisting foil round strands of her hair with studied concentration; Sylvia, meanwhile, had glanced up sharply before looking back at her magazine. Julia reddened; she felt stupid suddenly, awkward.

  ‘They’re really popular?’ she asked, her voice more cautious now, softer.

  Jim shrugged. ‘People like to be careful,’ he said evenly.

  ‘And they’re not . . . the disallowed ones?’

  Jim met her eyes briefly in the mirror and Julia felt a thud of fear.

  ‘They’re legal, so far as I know,’ Jim said. ‘So, shall I turn the volume up?’

  Julia frowned, uncertain what he was talking about, then she realised he was looking at the small computer screen embedded in the wall. It wasn’t usually on; Julia knew it was Jim’s way of stopping dead their conversation. He didn’t trust her. She didn’t trust herself.

  ‘Today saw the demise of Margaret Pincent, daughter of Richard Pincent of Pincent Pharma, granddaughter of Albert Fern, the inventor of Longevity, and former House Matron of Grange Hall, who shot her former husband last year. The murderer died after a gradual, humane reduction in Longevity. Her former Surplus son, Peter Pincent, an Opt Out, is a known Underground supporter and on the most wanted list. And in other news, the United States has announced a state of emergency as the death toll from contaminated Longevity drugs reaches 2,565. In the UK, the Authorities have confirmed only two hundred affected people, and say that anyone caught protesting or attempting any seditious activity will be imprisoned immediately . . .’

  ‘Bet a lot of women have thought about killing their ex-husbands, don’t you reckon?’ Jim was smiling again; Julia managed a slightly strangled laugh.

  ‘I imagine they’ll think twice now,’ she said. Her arm was itching unbearably; not scratching it was taking all her concentration, rendering her hot and uncomfortable.

  ‘Bit warm today, isn’t it?’ Jim said. ‘Bit unseasonal, don’t you think?’

  Julia looked at him uncertainly. ‘I’m not hot,’ she lied. She was sweating; she wondered if Jim had noticed.

  ‘No? Must just be me.’ Jim shrugged. He looked as though he was going to say more, but he was distracted immediately by a gust of wind as the door opened. Julia turned her head to see who it was, but she didn’t recognise the woman who rushed in. Her hair was short and severe, the skin on her face lined and coarse. She met Julia’s eyes and came running towards her and Julia found herself shrinking back into her chair.

  ‘Water!’ the woman gasped, grabbing at a glass that had been left on a shelf and bringing the whole unit tumbling to the floor. ‘Water!’

  Everyone stared at her in horror, Julia recoiled violently and Jim immediately dropped the foils. ‘This is a hairdressers, not a cafe,’ he said, attempting a smile as though it might defuse the woman’s anger. ‘Maybe you should go somewhere else.’

  Julia was staring at the woman in fright. She was on the floor now, clutching at her throat. ‘Water!’ she screeched. ‘Give me water!’

  ‘Give her some water!’ Julia heard herself shout, then she clapped her hand over her mouth as two policeman enter the salon. Quickly they bundled the woman out of the hairdressers and into a van that was parked outside. Two salon assistants, meanwhile, lifted the shelving unit back up and started to rearrange the objects
on it. For a few minutes everyone sat in silence. Then slowly, gradually, conversation started again and the salon resumed its low hum of activity.

  ‘Well!’ Jim said, turning Julia round on her swivel chair, asking her to face up towards him so that he could do her hairline. ‘That was a bit out of the ordinary, wasn’t it!’

  Julia nodded. Her hands were shaking and she quickly moved them under her gown. There was another policeman in the doorway; she could see him out of the corner of her eye. Jim saw him too.

  ‘You just missed the nutter,’ he called out. ‘She’s been taken away.’

  The policeman looked at him for a moment, then entered the salon. He headed straight for Julia. She started to sweat. They were coming for her. She’d known they would. She’d known it. She was shaking; she was terrified.

  ‘Jim Harrison?’

  Jim turned and smiled. ‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’

  The policeman didn’t return the smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me,’ he said.

  ‘Come with you?’ Julia nodded and started to stand up.

  ‘If you don’t mind.’ The policeman took Jim by the arm and frogmarched him outside. Julia stared after them uncertainly. Jim? They’d come for Jim? He was an Underground agent? It was impossible. No, not impossible, but unlikely. So unlikely.

  ‘My foils!’ she called after them foolishly. She ran to the door, out on to the pavement. There was a van right outside and the policeman opened the back. The road was empty; checkpoints and blockades had been set up around the salon. She followed the policeman and Jim. ‘Can’t he finish my foils first? I’m sure there’s been a mistake. My husband works for the Authorities. I can call –’

  ‘Back inside, please,’ the policeman said to her curtly, but it was too late – she’d already run a few metres down the road, had seen inside the van. The bodies, some alive, some dead, were piled on top of each other like animal carcasses, the stench overwhelming. Not Underground supporters. Not terrorists. They were ill. Like the woman who’d wanted water. They were all ill, Julia realised with a thud.

  Jim had seen too. His face was white. ‘Wait! What are you doing?’ he shouted desperately as the policeman threw him inside with the rotting bodies. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’m not –’ But his words were lost as he was thrown in the back, the door closed behind him.

  The policeman got into the van and stared at Julia who was rooted to the spot, unable to move. ‘You get back inside,’ he said. ‘Else you’re going in the van too, understand?’

  Julia nodded. She edged back towards the salon, walked in and closed the door. Then she stood there, stock still, unable to move for several minutes. Because she did understand. Finally, she understood completely.

  .

  Chapter Sixteen

  The rain was lashing down and Molly’s battered pram kept getting stuck in the mud as Anna attempted to push it with one hand and pull Ben along with the other down the winding lane that led to her house. Their house. Peter was only gone for a week, she knew that, but she also knew that it was empty without him.

  She tried not to think about it, tried to remember the steel wall that she’d built up at Grange Hall – a wall that protected her from disappointment, that kept everyone out. But the wall was no use now, she knew that.

  Anna hadn’t needed anybody back then, had seen it as a matter of pride that no one could ever disappoint her because she didn’t hope for anything. She’d thought she was strong, but now . . . now she could see that she’d been weak, fragile, so easy to break. These days she allowed herself to feel – allowed anger to flood her veins, joy to fill her heart and pain to fill her eyes with tears. She knew that each emotion came and went, knew that she could cope with whatever life threw at her. Even Peter going to London.

  She reached for her keys; her hands were soaking wet and it took an age to work one into her pocket. Eventually, though, the door swung open and she pulled the pram in. She’d turned the heating off the day before when the icy weather broke and clouds appeared, offering some natural protection from the cold, but still the house felt warm. Warm and safe. Anna couldn’t understand desires that stretched outside of those two words. Or three, perhaps. Warm and safe and free. Warm and safe and free and loved . . . She shook herself and lit the candle on the kitchen table, took off Ben’s coat and gave him a drink of milk. Peter never used candles – he laughed at her attempts to save on energy, told her that a few hours on the computer and a few lights on weren’t going to make any difference to anyone, particularly as their energy came directly from a secret generator provided by the Underground. They were off the grid and no Authorities rationing could be imposed on them. But Peter didn’t suffer from the guilt that Anna did; she still felt the pressure to tread lightly on the world, to use as few of its resources as necessary. And anyway, she liked candles. They were cosy and reassuring.

  She picked up Molly and took off the layers of blankets enveloping her. Molly had been sleeping and opened her eyes, smiling in delight as she always did when she woke up. Anna found it amazing that a baby could be so entirely happy when it knew so little of the world; it terrified her that she was responsible for that happiness, for making it continue, for ensuring that Molly’s smile never faded.

  ‘There’s a good girl,’ she cooed, as she lay the baby down on a sheepskin rug on the floor. ‘I’m just going to scrape the vegetables. Good girl. Now, Ben, would you like to help me?’

  ‘Vegebles,’ Ben agreed. ‘Scape vegebles.’

  He started to rummage half-heartedly through the shopping on the pram, then wandered off to play with a wooden dog on a lead that Peter had made for him a few days earlier. It was too dangerous to take the children shopping. Underground supporters left dried goods and other supplies for them once every couple of months and they had to grow most of their food, but every so often, an excursion to the nearest convenience store was unavoidable and Peter would usually go alone with the fake identicard that Pip had given him. Today though, with no Peter, Anna had been forced to go herself, tying Ben to Molly’s pram and hiding it out of sight half a mile from the shop. People had looked at her – they always did – but no one said anything, no one challenged her. The village was sympathetic, Pip had told them; twenty years before Catchers had descended looking for Surpluses and a skirmish had ensued. Four Legal children had been killed, one just a baby, and that wasn’t the sort of thing anyone forgot easily.

  ‘Doggie!’ Ben yelped excitedly as he pushed it along the floor towards Molly. ‘Doggie roll!’

  ‘Careful of the baby,’ Anna sighed, then started to unload the shopping herself: a few poor cuts of meat, some milk, yogurt, bread. When she’d worked for Mrs Sharpe, she’d imagined that everyone on the Outside ate chocolate every day, that their homes would be brimming with wonderful food. But she’d soon realised that even on the outside food was scarce.

  That was fine with her. She loved growing her own food, loved watching vegetables and fruit ripening, nature at its proudest. She loved the feeling of control over her destiny, loved spending most of her life outdoors and the rest of it inside, cooking, cleaning, making a home for her family.

  She sat down and looked over at the children. Ben’s wooden dog was scampering all over Molly, who was giggling in delight. Anna found herself smiling too. She was so lucky, she realised. So incredibly fortunate. Perhaps she would start her diary again. She’d been meaning to for ages, but never seemed to find the time. Now, with Peter gone, she could write in the evening when the children were asleep. She could read, too, curled up in bed . . .

  Her thoughts were disturbed by a gust of wind that swept past her face and blew out the candle. Immediately Anna felt a jolt of fear – an irrational one, she knew. It would be a broken window, a gap in one of the dilapidated walls that they’d yet to fill. She had always been scared of the dark, a fear borne out of spells in Solitary at Grange Hall, a dark, dank, miserable place that aimed to break the spirit of its inhabitants and succ
eeded in doing so. All except for Peter, that is. Peter didn’t allow Solitary to break him; instead it was he who did the breaking – tunnelling out, taking Anna with him, giving her a taste of freedom and excitement that she’d never thought possible.

  Using this memory to steel herself, Anna got up and felt around for the matchbox then, using her hands to protect it from the wind, she struck a match and relit the candle. Immediately its warm glow turned the kitchen back into a safe, warm place. Ben, who had momentarily stopped playing to look around in confusion, resumed trotting his dog up and down Molly’s body as she gurgled and kicked in enjoyment. Anna stood up and walked around the room to find the source of the gust of wind that had plunged it into darkness. The door was firmly closed; there was a small draught from underneath, but not enough to extinguish a candle. The window to its left was also shut; Anna lifted her hand but couldn’t feel any wind coming through it. Frowning, she walked towards the bigger window on the other side of the kitchen. And then, suddenly, she stopped and screamed. Because in the reflection of the window, she saw a pair of eyes looking at her from inside the room. Immediately, Ben began to yell and, like an echo, Molly followed suit. Terrified, Anna turned to them, but an arm looped around her, preventing her from moving.

  ‘Cooperate and everyone will be just fine,’ a voice said – a deep, threatening voice. Anna did her best to breathe. She had to be strong for Molly, for Ben.