‘Cooperate. Yes. Yes, I . . .’ Anna managed to say. Molly’s cries were searing through her like physical pain. ‘The children,’ she said. ‘Please let me go to them.’
‘Don’t worry, they’re coming too,’ the man said.
He grabbed her hands and pulled them behind her back. Anna felt her stomach clench. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please. We’re not Surplus. I’ve got papers. I’ve got our documents . . .’
But the Catcher was already taking out his phone to call his haul in. ‘I’ve got the girl,’ he said. ‘The children too.’
Then, pulling Anna, he dragged her out of the house.
Derek answered his phone immediately. ‘It’s definitely her?’ he asked.
‘Definitely,’ his guard replied. ‘The Covey girl and two small ones. Shall I tell Mr Pincent, like he said?’
‘No,’ Derek said, smiling to himself. ‘Tell no one. Bring her to me.’
‘But –’
‘But nothing,’ Derek cut in angrily. ‘You report to me, I report to Richard. And the orders have changed. You bring them to me, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the guard said quickly. ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Good.’ Derek put down the phone and breathed out slowly. Everything was coming together. Anna Covey and her children were his and soon there would be more. Many more.
Twenty vans were parked outside, waiting for his word. He would go with them, he decided. Make sure the job was done properly.
He stood up and moved silently along the corridor, then down the back steps of Pincent Pharma to where the vans were waiting. Quickly he inspected them, then nodded to the drivers.
‘It’s time,’ he said, a little smile playing on his lips. ‘It’s time to collect.’
.
Chapter Seventeen
Ella Blunden sighed and turned off the news broadcast, searching for some music instead. There was enough grey at Grange Hall without having more descend from the outside world. She’d thought of Grange Hall as a prison when she’d first arrived but now, with fear on the streets, it felt like a refuge. Missings, police checkpoints, the Underground poisoning the Longevity supply, people ranting on the radio about death, about God, about conspiracy theories . . . Grange Hall itself had received numerous phone calls from people offering to torch the place, telling her to kill the Surpluses before they had an opportunity to grow up and become terrorists themselves. Chance would be a fine thing, Ella thought to herself with a sigh. Although it would put her out of a job.
She found a music station playing swingsong and turned up the volume. The Surpluses were all asleep; they wouldn’t hear, anyway. The House Matron’s rooms were soundproofed – Ella had seen to that. She hadn’t exactly jumped when they offered her the job, not after what had happened to the last House Matron. But money was money, and they’d held out all sorts of incentives, including the refurbishment of her apartment and a new office. One that no one, to her knowledge, had committed murder in. She had standards, after all.
She sat back in her upholstered chair and poured herself a glass of wine, taking a sip, then a larger gulp. Perhaps if she drank the bottle she’d fall asleep again, snatch a couple of hours before the new day began.
It wasn’t a nice place to be. It was safe, perhaps, but cold – a sinister house that sucked any life out of you, took away any humanity. She’d been here nearly a year now, a year that felt like for ever. And yet the Authorities had made it clear she was to stay for at least ten years, that this was part of the deal.
They didn’t know what it was like, she thought to herself as the music played: they’d cleaned the streets of the vile young things and had forgotten what it was to be around them all day long. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t sleep these days, she mused. Perhaps she was waking up at 4 a.m. so that there was a buffer between her dreams and her reality – a time to adapt, to accept.
She took another gulp of wine and let the music soothe her active mind. It was the girls she found the hardest, she mused, as she felt the alcohol slowly warm her blood. The boys were easy to discipline because they understood about dominance. They tried to fight back, failed, were beaten and then fell into line. Girls, on the other hand . . . She took another gulp of her wine, then another, then reached out for the bottle to refill her glass. Girls were tricky. You never knew what they were thinking, what they were planning. They unnerved her. She was pleased that the liberals were being hunted down, pleased that everyone was seeing the Underground for what it really was. If those sympathisers had only come to work here they’d have realised the truth. If they spent one week in this place, they’d repeal any legislation protecting the little brats.
A buzzer sounded in her room and Ella’s eyes shot to it angrily, warily. It could only mean one thing – trouble. No one would dare call her at this hour unless it was important, unless it was very bad news. She shrank back into the protective comfort of her chair, wishing she was somewhere else, anywhere else. But she wasn’t. She was there. She had to move. Steeling herself, putting down her drink, she reluctantly stood up, walked over to her desk and picked up the receiver.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Blunden, there’s someone here to see you.’
‘At this time of night?’ Ella asked impatiently. ‘And you let them in? I’ve made it clear that I don’t expect to be disturbed unless there’s a real emergency. A breakout. A death. Unless that’s what’s happened, there is no reason to call me at this hour.’
‘If you could just come down –’
Ella put the receiver down, breathed into her hand to check her breath and, satisfied that the wine was undetectable, slipped her shoes on and made her way out into the corridor. As she did so she shivered – already she missed the sanctity of her rooms with their warm colours, plumped-up cushions, radiators that worked.
At the bottom of the stairs her Deputy Matron was waiting for her.
‘Well? What is it?’
Sarah nodded her head towards the door to the visitors’ reception. Ella looked up and as she did, a face appeared – a face she recognised. She’d never seen him in the flesh, but she knew who he was immediately. Everyone did. They called him the Dark Knight.
‘Mr Samuels!’ she gasped. ‘You should have told me you were coming. I’d have made preparations. I’d have –’
‘No need,’ Derek Samuels said smoothly, walking towards her. ‘This is a Code Red. I will be taking the Surpluses with me.’
‘The Surpluses?’ Ella said uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure I understand. You’re taking –’
‘All of them,’ Derek said confidently. He clapped his hands and more men appeared through the doorway, their Catchers uniforms putting a chill through Ella even though she knew she had nothing to fear from them.
‘But shouldn’t there be . . .’ her mouth twisted uncomfortably, ‘paperwork, notification, something? For my records, I mean,’ she said, smiling nervously. ‘You know what the Authorities are like.’
‘There is no need and no time for paperwork,’ Derek said.
Ella bit her lip. ‘So shall I wake them? We could ring the bell.’
‘Please don’t trouble yourself,’ Derek said briskly. ‘My men will not need any assistance. I’d be grateful if you would return to your quarters.’
Ella nodded mutely. Many times she’d hoped that the Surplus Halls would be closed down and the Surpluses got rid of. The rich would have to forgo their slave labour, but they could pay people properly if they wanted help, she’d reasoned. People like Ella herself. Give her a decent wage and she’d clean their houses and cook their meals. It would beat staying here, that was for sure.
But now that the Surpluses were being taken, she felt unsettled. ‘Perhaps I should phone the Surplus Department. Just to be sure,’ she said. But the look Derek Samuels gave her made her wish she hadn’t spoken. ‘Or I’ll just retire to my apartment,’ she said quickly, tugging at Sarah’s arm. ‘Both of us.’
‘That would be wise,’ Dere
k said. He clapped his hands again and watched as his men silently dispersed around the building.
.
Chapter Eighteen
Jude moved his arm, swatting away what he supposed must be a fly, but he missed and the fly turned into a stick being prodded into him by his father. He was taunting him, saying, ‘You’re not Peter. You’re the inferior brother. You’ll never be Peter. I wish you were Surplus.’ He lunged at his dad, eyes blazing, heard him yelp and woke up. It wasn’t a stick, he realised; it was Sam’s finger. ‘What the – What time is it?’ he asked groggily.
‘Five thirty.’
He glanced at his watch. That meant he’d had, what, three hours’ sleep? He pushed off the grimy blanket and pulled himself up. It was only then that he realised how white Sam was. His heart fell.
‘What’s happened? Have we been found?’
Sam shook his head. ‘It’s the Surpluses,’ he said, his voice hoarse.
‘The children?’ Jude looked at him in alarm. ‘Are they back?’ The night before, he’d persuaded the supporters who’d helped them move to take the children with them – they’d agreed eventually, but uneasily. It was a great deal at any time to ask someone to hide a child and right now it was almost suicide.
‘Not those ones,’ Sam said bitterly. ‘The Surpluses in the halls. They’ve all been taken away. A woman called. The Northern Watcher. She said the Steadley Hall Surpluses were taken away by Catchers in the middle of the night. And the Southern Watcher said that Grange Hall was emptied at 10 p.m.’
Jude stared at him wide-eyed. ‘You’re sure it was the Watchers? Sure it wasn’t a fake?’
‘They knew all the codes. The Northern Watcher was crying. She said she hadn’t been able to do anything. She said the Catchers came. They sneaked in and bundled everyone out.’ He looked down. ‘What next?’ he whispered. ‘What next?’
‘We track them down, that’s what,’ Jude said, jumping up, but he didn’t believe his own words.
‘You can’t fight the Catchers,’ Sam murmured. ‘No one can.’
Jude walked over to the phone, read the transcript of the Northern Watcher’s description of the Catchers pulling up outside, the Surpluses being led out into the cold night then bundled into the back of the vans. He shivered. ‘OK,’ he said grimly. ‘Here’s what we do. You’re going to get some sleep and I’m going to think.’
‘No,’ Sam said, his expression one of defeat. ‘Pip’s gone. The Surpluses are gone. No one is on the Underground’s side any more. It’s over. Can’t you see that?’
‘It’s not over,’ Jude said tersely. ‘We’ve got something that Richard Pincent wants, and if he wants it badly enough we can get Pip back and maybe even the Surpluses. And if he doesn’t want it badly enough then we’ll think of something else. But we’re not giving up. No way.’
His eyes travelled to his brother, who was lying on the floor; he’d been unconscious since he’d arrived the night before. He walked over and woke him up.
‘Peter,’ he whispered. ‘Peter, wake up.’
Peter sat up with a start. ‘What? What?’ he said fearfully, then registered Jude’s face. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Why are you here?’ Jude looked at him intently.
‘Why am I here?’ Peter’s face crumpled with confusion. ‘I brought the ring,’ he said. ‘Like you asked.’
‘Like I asked?’ Jude said uncertainly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about the message you sent me. To send the ring down. I messaged back, remember? Said I was coming with it.’
Jude looked at him blankly. Then he swallowed uncomfortably as a terrible thought struck him. He walked over to his computer and quickly navigated past the security codes into the messaging centre. He hoped he wouldn’t find anything; hoped there had been a mistake, that his unthinkable suspicion was completely wrong. But there in front of him, hidden in the ‘Deleted’ folder, he saw it: the message that had been sent to Peter. He saw other messages too, messages to Richard Pincent, messages back again. He breathed in sharply.
‘The good news is that Richard Pincent wants the ring,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘And the bad news?’ Peter asked. Jude didn’t answer. ‘Where are we anyway?’ Peter asked, looking around.
‘New headquarters,’ Jude said flatly. Then he turned to Peter. ‘Do you have the ring?’
‘Of course,’ Peter said, reaching into his pocket. Then he frowned. ‘I had it . . .’ he said, going white.
He stood up and searched every pocket. ‘I had it when I got here. I know I did,’ he said frantically. ‘Is it important? Why do you need it anyway?’
Jude didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
Then he looked around. ‘Where’s Sheila?’ he asked quietly.
Sam, who’d been staring at Peter as though he were a ghost, appeared to shake himself. ‘In there,’ he said, pointing to a door. Jude ran towards it and pulled open the door. ‘She’s not there,’ he said, turning back to Sam. ‘Is she with the children?’
Sam rushed around, pulling open cupboard doors, but within seconds they knew she had gone; the new Underground headquarters were half the size of the last place and there were few places to hide.
‘I don’t know how . . . I was on the door all the time. Except for unpacking. Except for –’
‘Sheila took the ring?’ Peter asked incredulously. ‘Is that what you think? Why would she do that? What’s going on, Jude? Tell me what’s happening.’
Jude turned back to his computer and opened recent files; as he scanned them he filled Peter in on what had been happening.
His brother didn’t take the news of Pip well. ‘He’s been captured? He turned himself in? It’s impossible . . .’ he was saying.
But Jude wasn’t listening. He was staring at a file he thought he’d deleted, a list of the Palmers that he’d tracked down. Uncertainly he scanned the names.
‘What?’ Peter demanded again. ‘Do you know where she is?’
Jude looked at him uncertainly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, a feeling of dread rising up within him. What had his princess done? Why had she been driven to this?
He bit his lip, trying to think. She had the ring, but she was still looking for the Palmers. Where would she be? There were nearly fifteen names and addresses on the screen and they didn’t have time to go to every one. Had she contacted them? Surely she knew where she was going before she left?
He stared at the desk in front of him, then noticed a notebook. The top page had been ripped out; beneath it the imprint of writing could be seen. Immediately he grabbed it.
Peter ran his hand through his hair. ‘Jude, forget about Sheila,’ he said. ‘If she’s gone, so be it. We need to get Pip. That’s what matters.’
‘Sheila is what matters,’ Jude said grimly, his mind racing. Already a plan was forming in his mind. But the plan required preparation. He needed to get back to his computer; needed to get back into the Pincent Pharma security system. But most of all he needed to find Sheila. ‘It looks like Sheila has your ring. Your grandfather wants your ring. Without it, we’ve got nothing to bargain with. We need Sheila, otherwise we’ve got nothing.’
‘So where do we start looking?’ Peter asked.
Jude looked back at the scrap of paper, his mind clouding with worry, with anger, with uncertainty. ‘She’s in Muswell Hill,’ he said. ‘At least I think she is. You wait here and I’ll go and see.’
Peter looked down at his clothes, which still bore footprints on them. ‘I’m not waiting anywhere,’ he said gruffly. ‘If you go, I go. Understand?’
Jude thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘In that case, give me five minutes and we’ll go.’
.
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.