The Legacy (10 page)

‘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 again. 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.’

Sheila appeared immediately and looked at him searchingly. ‘The phone? Why? Where are you going?’

‘To get someone. A child,’ Jude said. ‘The mother’s under attack. There’s no one else.’

Sheila’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘But you can’t go. You’ll be caught. Send someone else.’

‘There is no one else,’ Jude said grimly. ‘I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself.’

‘But . . .’ Sheila stared at him helplessly. ‘But we need you here. I need you. I . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t go.’

‘I have to go,’ Jude said, grabbing his coat. Then he stopped. ‘You need me?’ he asked. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ Sheila whispered. She was looking right at him, her face defiant, scared, beautiful all at once. Without warning Jude grabbed her, pulled her towards him and kissed her, before letting her go and running towards the door.

‘I need you too,’ he whispered, too late for her to hear him. ‘You have no idea how much.’

The freezing air outside stung his skin and he pulled his coat tightly around him as he made his way through the streets. He’d memorised the address, knew he could get there using one of Pip’s tried and tested routes. London was really two places: the place where most people lived, and the place the Underground inhabited – disused Underground tunnels, little-known alleyways that Legals would never walk down, particularly after dark, the cracked, unkempt main roads that years ago had been clogged with cars and which now lay empty but for the odd vehicle driven by someone very rich or very well connected.

Jude knew that what he was doing was rash, ill-considered; he knew that Pip would never have let him go. But he also knew he had no choice. He’d heard the crowd baying for blood; he couldn’t leave the woman and her child – he couldn’t. So instead he ran, ignoring the pounding in his head, ignoring his muscle spasms as he forced himself onwards. He took out his handheld device and searched for the woman’s address. Soon he had a live CCTV image on his screen which revealed that while the front of her house was surrounded, the back was clear. On he ran. She was only twenty minutes away, but twenty minutes was a long time when you were under siege. He ducked through an alleyway and under a disused flyover, then pulled back against a derelict building. A sign above it revealed its history: St Thomas’ Hospital. Through a gap in the boarded-up doors behind him Jude could see a blue sign, only just legible, pointing to A&E, to a Maternity Ward, to ENT. He’d never seen an old hospital before – they had all been converted long ago into apartment blocks, like the schools and universities. But this area was down on its luck – the high-speed surface rail hadn’t yet reached it and until it did, buildings like this would be left to rot.

Pulling his eyes away, Jude listened for footsteps then carefully edged away from the hospital and ran, ducking into doorways, behind buildings, on to the main road that led to the woman’s house. Her road was on the left; a few metres before the turning he jumped over a fence into one of her neighbours’ gardens, then into hers. Here he ran to the back and, as the crowd shouted, kicked an opening in the fence ready for their escape before turning and making his way stealthily towards the house. He took out his handheld device and called her number.

‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice was shaking.

‘It’s the concierge from Hotel Sweeney,’ he said in a low voice. I need you to come to your back door. Slowly. Carefully. Don’t let anyone see you.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ she said. He could see her through the back window, her outline moving into the hall. She was large, moving slowly; Jude silently willed her to speed up.

‘She’s coming!’ someone shouted at the front of the house.

‘Kick down the door!’ someone else shouted.

‘Legal killer!’

‘Terrorist!’

The woman froze; Jude looked around desperately. He had minutes to get her out. Seconds, even. He ran to the door just as the woman got there. In her arms was a young child, his eyes wide with fear.

She opened the door and stared at Jude. ‘But you’re just a child yourself! I thought there would be more of you,’ she gasped. ‘We’ll never get out alive.’

‘We’re going this way. Through the fence,’ Jude said, holding his arms out for the child. ‘You’ve got to come now.’

The woman looked at him, then at her child, then she shook her head. ‘I can’t run,’ she said. ‘I’m not strong enough.’

‘Yes you are,’ Jude said through gritted teeth. ‘Come on.’

‘I’m an Opt Out,’ the woman said, her eyes shining with tears. ‘My body doesn’t renew itself and my heart . . .’ She shook her head again, then looked at Jude desperately. ‘Take him,’ she begged. ‘Take him, please. Leave me here.’

‘I can’t leave you here. They’ll kill you,’ Jude said vehemently. ‘Come. Now. We can get away.’

‘No.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I’ll slow you down. They’ll catch us.’

A large crash made them jump and the woman grabbed Jude by the shoulders. ‘They’re breaking the door down,’ she said. ‘Go. Go now. Look after my boy. Make sure he knows I loved him. That I wanted him. His papers are in his pockets. Look after him, please?’

Jude shook his head but the woman was already closing the back door. Reluctantly he pulled the child to him and started to run. As he squeezed through the hole in the fence he heard the crowd rushing into the house; then he ran, ran as fast as he could away from the screams as the woman surrendered to her tormentors, holding the child tightly to his chest to silence his whimpers, to stop from crying out himself. All he could think about was Sheila when she was little, being taken away from the parents who loved her on a night like this. All the children who’d been wrenched from loving homes to be imprisoned, murdered, enslaved.

‘It’s OK,’ he whispered. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

As he rushed back to the Underground, stumbling with tiredness, his arms barely capable of carrying the weight of the child, he realised he had to make his promise good – he had to make sure everything would be OK. His body was crying out for sleep, for food, for water. But as he dashed madly through the door of the Underground, completing the security checks, explaining the child’s presence to the Underground guard at the door, he was met with Sheila’s eyes, wide with fear as she put down the phone. ‘I don’t want to answer the phone any more,’ she said, her bottom lip quivering. ‘I don’t want to, Jude. I don’t like it here. I hate it.’

‘I know,’ Jude said, handing the child to the guard. ‘I know. But we’ve got to be strong. We’ve got to keep fighting.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ she said quietly, standing up as the phone started to ring again.

Her eyes were swimming with tears; as they started to cascade down her cheeks, she fell against him. Jude held her tightly, his forehead creased, his eyes dark with worry. ‘Leave the phone for a while. I’ll answer it,’ he said softly. ‘You go and get some rest. OK?’

Sheila nodded, her body juddering slightly. ‘I don’t need rest,’ she said stoically. ‘Let me do something else. I can man your computer, answer messages.’

‘My computer? But I turned it off when I went out,’ Jude said hesitantly. His own security protocol meant that computers were always shut down when unattended for more than ten minutes. He was religious about it; he of all people knew how vulnerable networks could be.

‘So I can turn it on again,’ Sheila said quietly. ‘Can’t I?’

Jude looked at her uncertainly.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Sheila asked, her lips forming a little pout. ‘Why did you teach me to use it if you never let me on it? I can help, Jude. Let me help.’

Jude didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, eventually, he nodded. He didn’t have a choice – Sheila was right. She was offering to help and he needed all the help he could get. ‘OK,’ he said, his voice rather strangled. ‘But don’t – don’t do anything stupid.’

Sheila took his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘I . . .’ She looked at him searchingly as though about to say something then apparently changed her mind. ‘I won’t,’ she repeated instead, then ran lightly from the room.

‘Jude,’ Pip said, suddenly appearing at the door. He looked even more exhausted than Jude felt; his eyes had dark circles round them. ‘Jude,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Where have you been?’

Jude glanced up. ‘I just had to pick someone up,’ he said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. ‘We’ve got another child. He’s with the guard.’

Pip looked at him carefully. ‘You went out? That was very risky, Jude.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not just a techie,’ Jude said, irritation suddenly getting the better of him. ‘I can actually help people as well.’

Pip didn’t say anything for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Of course you can,’ he said quietly. He sighed heavily. ‘Jude, I . . .’ He trailed off for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. ‘I want to tell you something. Something important. I . . .’ He looked at Jude intently, then took a deep breath. ‘I . . .’

‘What?’ Jude asked impatiently. ‘Is it really important, or is it about books again? Because people are under attack and the phone is ringing because they need our help, and someone’s got to answer it.’