The Declaration

  Julia tried to smile, but already she could feel her hands shaking. Breaking the law suddenly seemed a less attractive proposition than it had before.

  The man blocking her way was Mr Roper, the Chief Catcher. She’d seen him on the news before, but never in person.

  Be calm, she told herself. They’ve got nothing on you at all. They don’t know a thing.

  ‘I went to see a friend in London,’ she said quickly. ‘Such a cold night, isn’t it? And I haven’t used the car for so long . . . energy coupons, you know. I thought it might be a good idea to take it for a run.’

  Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  ‘That’s very interesting. I’ll get my men to check that, shall I?’

  Mr Roper’s voice was silky smooth, and Julia swallowed nervously.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t make it in the end,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level. After all, she had nothing to worry about, she told herself firmly. ‘The traffic was so bad I gave up, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Roper said. ‘I see. Shall we?’ he continued, holding out his arm and making it clear that Julia was to go into her house.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said brightly, getting out of the car and locking the door. As she did so, another man appeared out of nowhere and took the key from her.

  Julia opened her mouth to demand it back, but decided not to argue the point now. She’d get the key back, she thought to herself. It wouldn’t do to be unduly rude. No doubt they’d ask her a few questions, and then they would leave. And if they didn’t, she would simply call Anthony and he would sort things out.

  ‘I imagine you’ll know my husband,’ she said, trying to keep her tone conversational. ‘Anthony Sharpe?’

  Mr Roper smiled. ‘Indeed I do,’ he said smoothly. ‘Mr Sharpe was very concerned about the Surplus escape that occurred last night. Very concerned when he heard that we visited his house. He said to me that no wife of his would hide Surpluses.’

  ‘Hide Surpluses?’ Julia said indignantly. ‘Well, he’s absolutely right about that. The very idea! You know, we had a search in the village just this afternoon. These escapes can be very worrying.’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Sharpe, I’m sure they are. I’m sure you didn’t mean to lie this morning when my colleagues visited you.’

  Julia stared at him. ‘I don’t like your tone, Mr Roper. I don’t like your behaviour much, either,’ she said, crossing her arms. ‘I have rights, and I think I would prefer it if you would come back tomorrow.’

  Mr Roper shook his head. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid, Mrs Sharpe. We need to talk to you now. About the calls we’ve had saying that young people were seen in your garden. I understand that the girl worked for you briefly. Seems likely that she would come to you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Does it?’ Julia asked stiffly, following him through her front door, which was shut behind her by a tall man in uniform. In her kitchen, she could see three more. ‘Well, if she did, then I certainly didn’t know anything about it.’

  Mr Roper stared at her silently, and motioned for her to sit down.

  ‘I hope that you won’t be inconveniencing me for too long,’ she continued curtly, as she sat down at her kitchen table. He was a slight man, she noticed, thinner than he looked in photographs, with pale blue eyes and dark blond hair. He’d be quite good-looking under different circumstances. Perhaps a bit of charm would be a good idea, she thought to herself. Maybe if she fluttered her eyelashes a bit?

  But before she could launch her charm offensive, Mr Roper sat down across from her and grabbed her wrists.

  ‘The men you see over there,’ he said, pointing to the uniformed men standing around the sink area, ‘are Catchers. Catchers, Mrs Sharpe, have very different codes to normal police. They have more . . . leeway, shall we say. More methods at their disposal. You are the wife of a senior official, and I would not like to hand you over to the Catchers because I am a civilised man, and prefer a civilised approach. But I cannot keep them off you for long. They want those Surpluses, and they will find them. Do you understand?’

  He was leaning over the table and staring directly into Julia’s eyes, making her blink nervously.

  ‘But I’m a Legal,’ she said hesitantly. ‘You can’t treat me like this.’

  Mr Roper smiled. ‘Mrs Sharpe,’ he said, sitting back, his tone suddenly lighter, ‘do you know what will happen if we arrest you for hiding Surpluses?’

  Julia shook her head.

  ‘You will be put in a cell,’ Mr Roper continued, ‘and you will be questioned. We can keep you for up to three months if we wish.’

  ‘Three months?’ Julia asked, her eyes wide. ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong. This is . . . outrageous. It’s just not acceptable!’

  Mr Roper’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hiding Surpluses is outrageous, Mrs Sharpe. Defying the Authorities and the Declaration is not acceptable. I’m afraid that the normal rules and processes of the justice system don’t apply to the harbouring of Surpluses. Too much at stake, Mrs Sharpe. You understand, I’m sure.’

  He stared at her for a moment, then smiled. ‘You know, of course, that Longevity can be withheld in prison. For the duration of your stay with us, if we deem it necessary.’

  Julia stared at him incredulously. ‘You can’t do that,’ she said quickly. ‘I want to have my solicitor contacted. Frankly, Mr Roper, I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘And frankly, Mrs Sharpe, we’ve only just begun,’ Mr Roper said angrily.

  Julia bit her lip nervously.

  ‘Do you know what happens,’ Mr Roper continued, ‘when someone of your age stops taking Longevity?’

  Mrs Sharpe shrugged. She didn’t care, she told herself. These nasty men with their bully-boy tactics weren’t going to scare her.

  ‘After a month, all those signs of ageing that we’ve conveniently forgotten about start to return,’ Mr Roper said, a thin smile on his lips. ‘An aching back, knees that feel painful in the cold, lethargy, listlessness. After six weeks, your muscles will start to weaken, and your organs will start to fail. Two months and your hair will have thinned, your eyesight deteriorated along with your hearing, and your skeleton will begin to curve inwards. Up to six weeks, the situation is reversible. Two months, and you’ll never go back to full health. At ten weeks, the ageing process really starts to kick in – your body will be susceptible to disease and rot, your muscles will have all but disappeared. Twelve weeks and . . . well, no one’s made it past twelve weeks. They’re usually glad to die at eleven, frankly. Can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but wait for death to take away the pain of old age.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Julia said, her eyes narrowing. ‘You’re saying you’d let me die just because you suspect – and this is just a suspicion, let’s be clear – that I may have hidden two Surpluses, two youngsters who managed to escape from that horrible Surplus Hall?’

  Mr Roper looked Julia right in the eye. ‘I’m so glad you understand,’ he said.

  ‘I want to call my husband,’ Julia said firmly. ‘I want to call him right away.’

  Mr Roper nodded at one of the Catchers, who handed Julia the phone. She quickly jabbed at the numbers and listened as her husband’s phone began to ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Anthony? It’s me.’

  He sounded tired, drained. ‘Julia, thank God. What’s going on down there? I’m being turfed out of my office, suspended. They seem to think you’ve got yourself involved with that Surplus breakout.’

  ‘Suspended?’ Julia felt herself going white.

  ‘I told them it was preposterous. But one whiff of Surplus trouble and the rules change, I’m afraid. Just straighten things out, Julia, will you? I can’t get an answer out of anyone at my end. They’ve even frozen the bank account. It’s —’

  One of the Catchers disconnected the phone.

  ‘Like I said,’ Mr Roper said smoothly, ‘Surplus Management is not a game. If you cooperate fully, we can come to some arrangement. Your husba
nd need not even learn of the truth. If you refuse, then I’m afraid, Mrs Sharpe, that you will be detained indefinitely under the Surplus Act 2098, and your husband’s career will be over. It’s really up to you.’

  ‘You can’t do this . . . you can’t.’

  ‘Oh, but we can, Mrs Sharpe. We can.’

  As he spoke, another man emerged at the doorway. He was carrying Anna and Peter’s overalls, which Julia had hidden in the summer house, unable to decide how to dispose of them. Her eyes widened, and she saw a little smile appear on Mr Roper’s lips.

  ‘What will it be?’ he asked. ‘I believe you don’t have a choice, Mrs Sharpe. Not if you wish to live.’

  Julia looked at Mr Roper for what felt like an eternity, then looked down at the kitchen table, her shoulders slumping, defeated.

  She had done what she could, she told herself, her hands skating slightly. She didn’t have a choice. There was simply no alternative to cooperating.

  Forgive me, Anna, she said silently. I’m sorry I’m not stronger. But I’m not ready to die – not yet. I’ve got too much to lose. It’s all right for you – you’re still young.

  Slowly, she looked back up at Mr Roper.

  ‘I’ll cooperate,’ she said flatly. ‘Just tell me what you want to know.’

  Anna woke up to see a woman’s face hovering over her, and she didn’t know what to say, so she said, ‘I’m sorry,’ because she realised she must have fainted, and that wasn’t the sort of thing Pendings did.

  But instead of saying anything, the woman lifted her hand to Anna’s face and pushed some hair away from her forehead. Her hand was so soft, and the action so tender that Anna found herself covered in goosebumps, and she shivered. The woman leant down and kissed her on the forehead and said, ‘Anna, my precious, precious child, you’re safe now. You’re home now.’ Anna saw a solitary tear wending its way down her cheek, and suddenly Anna was crying too, and the woman pulled her towards her chest, and the two of them stayed like that for ages, just sobbing and holding each other, until Anna didn’t think she had a single tear left and her arms were trembling. And then she fell asleep again.

  An hour later, Mr Roper closed his notebook and smiled at Julia.

  ‘You’re sure they said Bunting?’

  Julia nodded nervously. ‘I only overheard them,’ she said quickly, ‘so I can’t be absolutely sure, but he said that her parents had changed their name when they got out of prison. So she was Anna Covey, but they were . . . Bunting. Yes, I’m sure that’s it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Roper said. ‘And do send my best to Mr Sharpe.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll catch them?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘Of course we’ll catch them,’ he replied. ‘We always catch them. Every time.’

  And with that, he and his colleagues left Mrs Sharpe, got into their car, and purred off down the street.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Sheila sat silently in Central Feeding, methodically lowering her spoon into the grey soup in front of her, lifting it to her mouth and swallowing. Gradually, rumours about Anna and Peter’s escape had started to circulate around Grange Hall. And Mrs Pincent said they’d been sent to a detention centre, but no one believed that. And for the time being, Sheila wasn’t being bullied because she was considered someone who might have inside information on how they did it, even though that didn’t stop Tania from taunting her. Left you behind, did they? Can’t say I’m surprised. Anna probably escaped just to get away from you.

  She snuck her left hand down the side of her overalls and into her pocket, where the silk knickers she’d stolen had taken up permanent residence, soft and indulgent, Sheila’s only link with the world Outside from which she had been wrenched. The world where she knew she belonged.

  Then, after draining her bowl of soup, she stood up. She had half an hour before she was due in Laundry, and she planned to go to Female Bathroom 2, her new refuge from the brutal world of Grange Hall. She had replaced Anna’s diary in its hiding place hours after Anna’s disappearance, but it wasn’t Anna’s diary any more. Now it was Sheila’s diary. She thought she might hide the knickers in the same place, build up a little treasure trove of beautiful things.

  But as she made her way to the door out of Central Feeding, she found Surplus Charlie blocking her way.

  ‘On your own, Sheila?’ he asked softly, a mocking look in his eye. ‘Got no friends now Anna’s left without you? Not much of a friend, was she?’

  Sheila glared at him.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Charlie glanced around to check that no Instructors were nearby, then smiled superciliously at Sheila.

  ‘Poor little Sheila,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No Anna to protect you any more, is there? No one to protect you at all.’

  He stuck his hand out and prodded her in the stomach menacingly.

  Sheila felt herself tense up in fear, but stared at him defiantly.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she hissed. ‘Just go away.’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that,’ Charlie said, his eyes glinting. ‘I’m a Prefect, and you have to do what I say.’

  He had moved towards her now, bending down and coming so close that he was almost touching her, his chin at the level of her nose, his breath heavy on her forehead. Sheila could feel her legs trembling beneath her. She’d seen Charlie bully other Surpluses, had seen him taunt and hit them. But he’d never seemed to have noticed her before. Not before Anna left. Not before Anna deserted her.

  ‘Charlie, Sheila, come here, please.’

  They both turned immediately at the sound of Mrs Larson’s voice, and walked towards her, heads bowed.

  ‘And what were you talking about so secretively?’ Mrs Larson asked crossly. ‘Explain yourselves, please.’

  ‘Charlie was . . .’ Sheila started to say, then stopped.

  ‘I was reprimanding her,’ Charlie said smoothly. ‘She left her bread, and I told her it was Wasteful. That Surpluses needed energy to be Useful.’

  Mrs Larson raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this true, Sheila? Did you waste your bread?’

  Sheila felt herself flushing. ‘Yes,’ she said, hating Charlie with all her might and hating Anna even more for leaving her. ‘Yes, I left my bread.’

  She thrust her left hand in her overall pocket and felt the silk against it, comforting her, reminding her that she was better than this place, better than Surplus.

  ‘Even though it’s Wasteful?’ Mrs Larson continued.

  Sheila lowered her head. ‘I wasn’t hungry,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Very well,’ Mrs Larson said, with a sigh. ‘If you’re not hungry, you can go without supper tonight too. Do you understand?’

  Sheila nodded miserably, and she saw Charlie smirk. She shot him a look of hatred and turned to leave.

  ‘Just one minute,’ Mrs Larson said, as she reached for the door. ‘What’s that in your pocket, Sheila?’

  Sheila felt the prickle of fear on her forehead.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, taking out her hand and showing Mrs Larson. ‘There’s nothing in there.’

  Charlie turned to stare at her. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said. ‘It’s bulging.’

  ‘No,’ Sheila said desperately, ‘it isn’t.’

  Mrs Larson frowned and came closer. Then she lifted Sheila’s hand and thrust her own inside the pocket, gasping when she drew out the silk knickers.

  ‘Oh, Sheila,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Oh, Sheila, you will be beaten for this. Oh, dear me.’

  Mrs Larson turned to Charlie.

  ‘Charlie, get House Matron, please. Right this minute.’

  Charlie looked at Sheila curiously for a second, then left silently.

  ‘You stole these?’ Mrs Larson continued, looking at Sheila with a mixture of outrage and pity. ‘You actually stole these?’

  Sheila bit her lip. Her heart was pounding and everything had taken on a slightly surreal sheen, as fear flooded through
her veins.

  Before she could reply, Charlie re-emerged. ‘House Matron said you should bring Sheila to her office,’ he said breathlessly, ‘right away.’

  Mrs Larson nodded curtly and grabbed Sheila by the arm.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling her roughly. ‘Let’s see what she has to say, shall we?’

  Sheila felt the familiar feeling of nausea wash over her. Mrs Pincent’s office represented Sheila’s private hell, a room full of pain and despair. It was in Mrs Pincent’s office that she had begged to be returned home all those years ago, that she had screamed for her mother, that she had cried desperate tears of remorse for whatever she had done that had resulted in her punishment.

  And it was in Mrs Pincent’s office that she had learnt, slowly but surely, that there was no way out. That this was not a punishment, but a life sentence.

  Mrs Pincent closed the door and walked back to her desk.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘in olden times, they would cut off a person’s hand for stealing. A Legal person’s hand too. What do you think they would consider a suitable punishment for a thieving Surplus?’

  Sheila felt her lower lip begin to quiver, and she steeled herself.

  ‘Your parents were so relieved, you know, when the Catchers finally found you,’ Mrs Pincent continued. ‘It was their idea, of course. They’d realised just what an evil, horrible child you were. Realised that no good could come from bringing up a Surplus to think it deserved a place in this world.’

  ‘No,’ Sheila cried wretchedly. ‘My parents loved me. They said I wasn’t a Surplus. They didn’t sign the Declaration. They —’

  Mrs Pincent laughed. ‘They lied, Sheila, and that’s the end of it. They brought you into this world illegally, and you have proved yourself to be the lowlife that all Surpluses are. Stealing. It’s a Sin, Sheila. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  Sheila looked down at the floor, and clenched her fists as anger and resentment swelled through her.

  It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair, she thought to herself desperately.