The Legacy (17 page)

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Chapter Nineteen

Julia heard the front door open but didn’t move. She was sitting on the sofa in the bay window at the front of the house, the sun streaming down on her through the double-glazed windows. She felt warm, she felt comfortable, she felt happy.

She heard her husband’s footsteps on the wooden hallway floor, the same footsteps she’d heard for decades, as he took off his coat, put down his keys, straightened his tie in the hallway mirror. She lifted her head slightly; any second now he would appear in the doorway, his expression serious as ever, offering her a sherry, enquiring what time supper would be ready even though they always ate at exactly the same time. Always had.

And there he was. She smiled. ‘Hello, darling.’

He frowned; it had been a long time since she’d used that word. A long time since she’d said a lot of things. A long and successful marriage, people called it, raising their eyebrows, looking at her in wonderment. So few relationships had lasted so long. Longevity had given some the impetus to start afresh (many, many times), had instilled in others the fear of commitment – for a lifetime of commitment was now so long, so terribly long. Without children there was no need for stability; with no family, there was no family unit, just individuals with their own agendas, their own pleasure-seeking journey.

But not Julia. Not Anthony. They were old-fashioned, she would say to those people with raised eyebrows. They had got used to each other. And if the romance had died long ago, the companionship hadn’t. The kindness hadn’t either, not entirely.

They were fond of each other.

They’d come a long way.

‘Sherry?’

Julia smiled. ‘I’d love one.’

Anthony walked over to the drinks cabinet and took out two glasses and a bottle, filling them to the same spot he always filled them. So many little routines, Julia found herself thinking. Long life, short life – did it matter when each day was the same, when humans were incapable of living for the moment because of their fundamental need for order, for the comfort of everyday routine?

He handed her a glass and she took a sip.

‘What time’s supper?’ he asked, already walking towards the door.

She smiled. ‘Does it matter?’

There was a silence; Anthony took a few seconds to register her answer. Slowly he stopped, turned round. He looked tired. Everyone looked tired these days. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I mean, does it matter?’ Julia said. She stood up, walked towards her husband, put her glass down on the mantelpiece and wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘We’ve had a good life, haven’t we, Anthony?’ she asked. ‘We’ve had our adventures, our holidays. We’ve lived well, haven’t we?’

Anthony nodded. ‘We live very well,’ he said. ‘And we will continue to do so. So, what time is supper?’

‘For how long?’ Julia whispered.

He frowned. ‘Julia, what’s wrong with you? What are you trying to say?’

‘How long will we continue to do so?’ Julia said. ‘It isn’t going to last, is it, Anthony? We’re going to die. I know we are.’

‘We are not going to die.’ Anthony stepped back, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘I won’t have you say such things in this house. The Authorities are clear on the matter. Longevity supply was sabotaged. The perpetrator is being held and questioned. There is no reason to –’

‘I saw the van,’ Julia said quietly. ‘They took my hairdresser. He wasn’t an Underground agent. The van was full of dead people, diseased people.’ There was a flicker of something in her husband’s eyes. Fear? Recognition?

‘I saw inside,’ Julia continued. ‘The Authorities are lying.’

‘Lying?’ Again the anger, the defensiveness. ‘The Authorities do not lie. It is sedition to utter those words.’

Julia shook her head defiantly. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes. ‘I won’t be taken away like that,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I won’t. I’d rather stop taking Longevity. I’d rather die here with you, comfortably, on our own terms.’

Anthony’s eyes widened. ‘You’re talking like a madwoman,’ he said uncertainly, downing his sherry in one. He stood up, walked back to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another. ‘What has got into you?’

‘Nothing has got into me,’ Julia said, blinking away a stray tear. ‘Just . . .’ She walked over to her husband. ‘We’ve had a good run. We’ve been happy. Haven’t we?’

‘Of course we have,’ he said irritably. ‘Julia, please stop this rambling. Are you drunk?’

She leant against his chest, remembered how small she used to feel when he wrapped his arms around her in the early days. He was a tall man and she’d loved that about him – loved the feeling that he would always look after her. Now she wanted to look after him.

‘I’ve already stopped taking my Longevity,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I didn’t take any today. Not after what I saw . . . I want you to stop too. I want us to stay here. I don’t want to go back outside.’

‘You’ve what?’ He stared at her incredulously. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking,’ she said carefully, ‘that I have always been in a position to make choices. We’ve been lucky in that way. And now I am making this choice. They won’t take me away in a van. They won’t take you. I want us to grow old together. Even if we’re only old for a few weeks, days even.’

‘Die? Get old?’ Anthony shook his head. ‘Julia, will you please listen to me? I told you, the Authorities have made it clear that –’

He was trembling. ‘You’re wrong, Julia. The Authorities are clear that everything is under control.’

‘And you believe them? You believe what you have been told?’ Julia demanded, her eyes gripping his, her voice quivering with emotion. ‘Really?’

He swallowed, looked away. ‘The Authorities’ line is that –’

‘There are bodies piling up, Anthony,’ Julia cut in. ‘I saw them with my own eyes. When I left the hairdressers, I walked and walked. They can’t collect all the bodies, can they? Tell me the truth, Anthony.’

‘It’s not my job to know the truth,’ her husband said hesitantly. ‘My job is to follow the rules, to manage efficiently, to ensure that protocol is adhered to . . .’

‘And what if it doesn’t matter any more?’ Julia said. ‘What then?’

‘I . . . I . . .’ He looked at her helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. She led him to a chair, where he sat down, let his head hang forward. Then he sat up again, his eyes wide. He looked at Julia mournfully; suddenly he seemed very tired. ‘They’re digging up land,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘The file states that it is for vegetable farming. But they are digging trenches two metres deep. Four in some places. Vegetables aren’t planted four metres underground.’

‘No, they’re not,’ Julia said, stroking his head.

‘And so many people collected for seditious activity,’ he continued desperately. ‘Hundreds of thousands of names. But there aren’t that many prison places. I asked where they had all been taken but no one could answer me. They’ve just . . . disappeared.’

Anthony sat up, pulled her towards him so that she was sitting on his knee. She hadn’t been there for decades. ‘I love you, Julia,’ he said, burying his face in her neck. ‘I have always loved you.’

‘And I love you.’ Julia smiled, tears in her eyes. ‘I love you very much, Anthony.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

‘How many days?’ he asked eventually.

‘They say it can be weeks,’ Julia said, smiling through her tears.

‘Take some today, then,’ her husband said, looking at her fervently. ‘We’ll stop together. Wait for me. We’ll stop together, we’ll go at the same time. We’ll shut the door, we’ll hole in. We’ll do this our way.’

‘Yes.’ Julia nodded happily, tears now cascading down her cheeks. ‘We’ll do it our way. Together. It’s time to start saying goodbye.’

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Chapter Twenty

Derek Samuels sat on the edge of his chair waiting. Soon. Soon it would be time. Everything was in place. The children locked away downstairs. Pip. Jude would arrive before long, bringing Peter and the girl, Sheila, with him.

Finally, Derek would wreak his revenge. He had waited a long time. Too long.

But soon it would be over.

Soon it would all be over.

A few minutes later Jude and Peter emerged on to a grubby London street, their collars up, their hats pulled down low. Jude’s hands, thrust in his trouser pockets, belied the urgency in his walk. Since he had joined the Underground he had known that the streets all carried danger, but now it was different. Now it wasn’t just Catchers or Authorities police he was fearful of, it was everyone. Everything. Death and the fear of death had changed everything, had changed everyone. Now it was each man for himself and anger erupted easily, devastatingly.

The street itself was largely empty; Jude soon realised why. In several doorways lay bodies – some alive, some dead – that had not been picked up yet, their diseased and rotting flesh attracting flies, creating a stench that forced passers-by on to the other side of the road. Jude tried to pull Peter away, but he didn’t do it in time. He watched uncomfortably as his half-brother registered the bodies, then he turned to look away and pretended he didn’t notice Peter retching into the gutter.

‘That was pretty grim,’ Peter said a few seconds later as they turned into another side street.

Jude nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘So, look, let me fill you in on what’s been going on.’

As they walked, Jude told him everything – about his grandfather, about the ring, about the Missing, about the attacks; about his suspicion that Sheila sent the message to him asking for the ring. And Peter told him about his journey, about the crowd he’d thought was chasing him but which trampled over him as they ran towards their real target, a doctor’s surgery. A dealer in sabotaged drugs, they’d shouted. A murderer.

Then they stopped for a moment.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Jude said, ‘but I’m glad you did. It’s lonely. Down here, I mean. Boring too.’

Peter looked at him in surprise. ‘Boring?’ he asked. ‘Really?’ He managed a rueful smile. ‘I thought you were having all the fun.’

‘Fun?’ Jude raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure. I suppose you could call this fun.’ He caught Peter’s expression and shrugged. ‘I thought you’d got the good deal, that’s all. Pip’s favourite. Hero of the Underground.’

‘Farmer, you mean,’ Peter said wryly. ‘And I left it to get trampled on by a hysterical crowd torching houses. Great plan, right?’

Jude grinned sheepishly. ‘You are an idiot,’ he said. ‘But you’re here now, so . . . This way.’ They ducked down and inched towards a busier road. People were scurrying along it faster than usual, their faces slightly pinched, their eyes averted, some of them wearing masks. Jude pulled Peter round the corner, then they darted past a health-food shop with posters in the window promoting vitamins that boosted the immune system and into a narrow passageway. On a tram stop poster, someone had scrawled ‘Kill the Murderers. Destroy the Underground.’

Suddenly a woman appeared in front of them. ‘My husband!’ she screamed. ‘They’ve taken my husband. They’ve taken him –’ Jude pulled Peter away. She didn’t seem to have noticed that they were young, but she would soon enough.

‘Look!’ the woman called after them. ‘My blisters. He had them too. They took him away. Will they come for me now?’

Jude saw Peter turn round, saw his eyes widen as he caught sight of the woman’s pustules. The same pustules that had covered the dead bodies in the doorways, the same pustules that Jude had seen on the bodies in the Pincent lorry. ‘Don’t look,’ he said, dragging Peter towards a grate in the pavement, heaving it open and jumping down. As Peter followed him they heard a van pull up and police leaping out, followed by the woman’s screams as she was dragged away.

‘Down here,’ Jude said, pulling Peter along a cramped tunnel. ‘It used to be a sewer,’ he added as they heaved open a trapdoor. ‘We can go north from here.’

Peter gulped. ‘A sewer?’

Jude looked at him archly. ‘What do you prefer? The sewer or the police? Come on, it doesn’t even smell. Not really, anyway.’

‘Fine, the sewer,’ Peter said grimly, jumping down after him.

It was 10 a.m. by the time they got to the address Sheila had written down, slipping into the front garden and hiding between the wall and a hedge. It was an ordinary terraced house on a residential street, the little garden well cared for with plots for vegetables and fruit.

‘You sure this is the right place?’ Peter asked nervously.

Jude nodded. ‘Look,’ he said. Through the reflective double glazing, a girl could be seen, her long red hair framing her face. It was unmistakably Sheila.

Jude stood up. ‘I’m going in,’ he said. ‘You go back to the sewer and wait.’

‘I’ll wait here,’ Peter replied.

‘No.’ Jude shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. If I don’t get out, you have to go to Pincent Pharma.’

Peter met his eyes, then nodded and ran off. Jude walked up to the front door and rang the bell, then slunk back and hid. A man came to the door and opened it a little. He looked old – very old, Jude realised with a start. His hair was grey, nearly white, his eyes watery and pale. He had a slight stoop. ‘Hello?’

The man looked from left to right then quickly closed the door. Immediately Jude slid out and rang the bell again. This time the man called out from behind the half-open door, ‘Who’s there?’

Jude looked around then ran out. Grabbing the man, he pulled his hands behind his back and pushed him back into the house before shutting the door again.

‘I’ve come for Sheila.’

The man didn’t say anything, but Jude wasn’t waiting for a reply. He pushed the man down the corridor towards the stairs. ‘I know she’s here,’ he said, taking the stairs two at a time and pulling the man up with him.

‘Wait!’ A woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs, pale but for the all-too-obvious pustules which she’d done her best to disguise with make-up. Her eyes were wide with fear. There was no sign of any of Richard Pincent’s men, no sign of any Catchers or guards. ‘Who are you?’ she called after him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Sheila?’ Jude ignored the woman. He let go of the man and continued up the stairs.

‘Jude?’ Sheila emerged from behind a door, her skin as translucent as always. She looked at him for a moment, her eyes lighting up, then, feigning insouciance, she raised her eyebrows. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

The woman was following him up the stairs; he could hear her rasping breath behind him. ‘Go back to bed, darling,’ she said to Sheila, grasping at Jude’s jacket. ‘You have to go now,’ she told him. ‘Sheila’s our daughter. She’s come to look after us.’

Jude looked at Sheila, who was gazing at him triumphantly, like she’d won a game or something.

‘These are my parents. My actual parents.’ She beamed at the woman who was trying to loosen Jude’s grip on her. ‘I found them on your computer. They didn’t want to give me up, Jude. They’ve been looking for me for years. And they were so happy to see me.’ She was smiling, her eyes full of tears, and she reached out to take Jude’s hand. ‘You don’t have to worry about me any more,’ she said.

‘But I want to worry about you,’ Jude said miserably. ‘I thought you needed me.’

‘I do,’ Sheila whispered. ‘I mean, I did. But you’ve got other things, Jude. And you don’t need me. My parents do. I’m home now. I’ve come home.’

‘This isn’t your home,’ Jude said bitterly. ‘The Underground is your home. I’m your home.’

At the mention of the Underground, he saw the woman’s eyes darken. ‘Underground? That group of murdering terrorists?’

‘You should go, Jude,’ Sheila said quickly. ‘My parents don’t approve of the Underground.’

‘They are not your parents,’ Jude said angrily.

‘We are,’ the woman said desperately. ‘I’m Mrs Palmer. I’m Sheila’s mummy. We’ve waited so long for her. Haven’t we, Billy?’

‘So long,’ the man called up. ‘For our little Sheila.’

‘You did?’ Jude asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘So your husband Opted Out?’ he added. ‘I mean, that’s why he’s . . . old?’

Mrs Palmer nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘But you didn’t. I mean, you’re on Longevity.’

Mrs Palmer nodded again. ‘A life for a life. Just one life.’

‘Yeah,’ Jude said. ‘A life for a life.’ He felt as if he was choking; his chest was constricting and he was finding it hard to breathe. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t lose her. Desperately he looked around for something, anything, that would make her see the truth . . . and then he saw it. A photograph.

‘That your husband?’ he asked. Mrs Palmer’s eyes followed his; the photograph showed Mr Palmer playing tennis, a big grin on his face.

‘A long time ago, yes,’ she said. ‘Now, please let me go. You’re hurting me.’

‘Funny that neither of you have red hair,’ Jude said.

Mrs Palmer cleared her throat. ‘Red hair?’

‘Like Sheila. I mean, you’re both dark. Bit unusual to have a red-haired child, isn’t it?’

He pulled Mrs Palmer round so that she was looking at him. Her eyes flickered slightly.

‘How old is Sheila?’ Jude demanded suddenly. ‘When was she born?’

‘Jude, you know when I was born,’ Sheila interrupted. ‘It was –’

‘I want your mother to tell me,’ he said, putting his hand up to stop her.

Sheila sighed in mock irritation, then looked at Mrs Palmer expectantly. ‘Go on, tell him,’ she said.

‘Well, you’re . . . fourteen,’ the woman said.

‘Fourteen? She’s not fourteen.’

‘Fifteen, I mean. Yes, she’s fifteen. She was born, now let me see, in 2123 – 24. Yes, she was born in 2124.’

‘And where was she when she was taken by the Catchers?’

‘Where? Well, here, of course. Oh, it was a terrible night. Terrible.’ She was twisting her head to look at her husband.

‘Here?’ Sheila asked. ‘I was here?’

‘That’s right,’ the woman said. ‘We tried to stop them. We begged them –’

‘So not at her grandparents’ then? Only that’s what’s in her file.’ Jude was staring at them angrily now.

‘Grandparents? Yes, of course. You remember, dear,’ Mr Palmer said, coming up the stairs. ‘The details – they become a blur. When you’re so upset. When you lose –’

‘A daughter?’ Jude said angrily. ‘You never lost a daughter, did you?’

Mrs Palmer put a protective arm round Sheila. ‘Of course we did. We did, didn’t we, Sheila? But we’ve got you back now. Safe and sound.’

‘Yes, you have,’ Sheila said, squinting as though she were having trouble focusing. ‘Go away, Jude. I don’t need you any more. I’ve got my parents now. And I’m tired. I’m very tired.’

‘What have you done? Drugged her?’ Jude stared at Mrs Palmer angrily. Then he turned to Sheila. ‘They’re not your parents.’

‘Yes they are,’ Sheila said, folding her arms defiantly. ‘You just don’t want me to be happy.’

‘Happy?’ Jude let go of Mrs Palmer and pulled Sheila to him. ‘Sheila, all I want is for you to be happy.’

‘No,’ Sheila protested. ‘You wouldn’t help me find my parents.’

‘Because they’re dead.’ Jude closed his eyes, pulled Sheila closer. ‘They’re dead, Sheila,’ he whispered. ‘I looked for them and found them. They died, Sheila. I’m so sorry.’

‘No,’ Sheila said, her body starting to judder. ‘No.’

‘Yes,’ Jude cried. ‘They lived in Kent. Your grandparents’ house was three streets away – you were staying there one weekend so your parents could go away for the night. A neighbour called the Catchers and your grandparents didn’t have the paperwork showing you were Legal, and . . .’

He drew back slightly so he could look at Sheila. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, gripping her tightly. ‘I wanted to tell you but Pip thought it would upset you. But these people – they’re not your parents. We have to leave here now.’

Sheila didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then her eyes narrowed and she turned to Mrs Palmer. ‘You said you were my mother,’ she said. ‘Why?’