The Declaration

by Gemma Malley

  ‘You don’t think this is best left to the Catchers?’ Julia asked tentatively.

  ‘Julia,’ Barbara said sharply, ‘we cannot stand by and let two Surpluses threaten everything that Longevity has brought us. They could be anywhere, and we need to pitch in, to do our bit. If we let two Surpluses escape, where will it end, Julia? There’s no room for them. They have to be stamped out.’

  ‘Stamped out?’ Julia couldn’t hide the outrage in her voice.

  ‘Dealt with, then,’ Barbara conceded. ‘Although I think stamping out a few of them really wouldn’t be a bad idea. It would send a message out, don’t you think?’

  Julia took a deep breath and leant against the back of her chair.

  ‘This afternoon,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll . . . well, I’ll see you there.’

  She put the phone down and sighed deeply. People were so scared of Surpluses, she thought to herself. Legal children, too, although you didn’t see any of those around these days. It was as if everyone had completely forgotten about the good side of young people, had convinced themselves that anyone below the age of twenty-five was dangerous and subversive. Anyone under sixty, rather. That’s how old the youngest person was now, apart from Surpluses and the odd Legal who slipped through the net after the Declaration. A world full of old people, Julia thought to herself, frowning. Old people who were convinced that they knew it all and that anything new or different could not be good – unless it related to Longevity drugs, of course.

  Perhaps ironically, Surpluses were the only subject about which there still seemed to be some political debate, even if it was limited to a very small number of very vocal people. The liberal camp were calling for a more humane approach to the problem, more education to prevent Surpluses from being born in the first place, whilst Barbara and her fellow Daily Record readers thought that the parents of Surpluses should be locked up for life and their progeny put down. Not their own Surpluses, of course, not the ones who cooked their food, tended their gardens, worked on building sites or undertook any of the other tasks that no one else wanted to go near. No, not them; just the ‘others’, whoever they were.

  No doubt the Authorities would conduct an opinion poll at some point, Julia thought to herself.

  Set up another working party. Give someone like her husband the job of overseeing it for twenty or so years until they had drawn some conclusions. And then . . . well, then they would implement the conclusions, she supposed. If anyone still cared enough about it.

  The fact of the matter was, though, that Julia didn’t have twenty years to form her opinion about the Surplus Problem. She didn’t have twenty years to make her mind up about what to do. She wasn’t certain the escapees were in her summer house, of course, but in her experience, two plus two usually made four.

  Standing up and taking the spare key from the kitchen, she wrapped a coat around herself and put on wellington boots, then picked up some gardening tools for good measure. Just in case the neighbours were watching. Just in case anyone else was too.

  She often wondered what drove the parents of Surpluses to defy the Declaration in the first place. Was it arrogance – a conviction that the Declaration didn’t apply to them? Did they not realise that they’d never get away with it? She’d heard talk of a movement, a pro-new-life movement that believed that the Declaration was wrong, that people shouldn’t live for ever, that youth was better than age. But no one took them seriously.

  She’d suggested once to Anthony that Longevity drugs should contain birth control drugs, so there wouldn’t be a Surplus problem. It had seemed so straightforward, so simple a solution. But Anthony said that it wasn’t possible because the drugs were finely balanced and you couldn’t overburden the formula; that birth control implants were better, safer, cheaper. Julia had pointed out they obviously weren’t a hundred per cent effective. Anthony had told her that she simply didn’t understand; that things were never that easy. But it seemed easy to her. She sometimes thought that the Authorities overly complicated things just to make sure they had enough to do.

  Julia herself had been one of the lucky ones, of course. She’d had her children by the time Longevity came along. Never had to make the choice.

  Well, not children – child. But one was enough, she and Anthony had agreed. One was plenty. And Julia had been delighted when it turned out to be a girl. Someone to go shopping with, to have a bit of a gossip with, she’d thought happily.

  Hadn’t turned out like that, of course. Tracey had ended up moving to America when she was thirty-five. Had a career, she’d said, and that’s where it was all ‘happening’. That was seventy years ago now. It didn’t seem that long, somehow, and yet sometimes it felt like a lifetime ago.

  Tracey called from time to time, which was nice. And every so often, energy allowance permitting, Julia would fly over and see her, but her daughter was very busy and they hadn’t managed to find a suitable date for the past ten years or so.

  Still, she had her friends, Julia thought to herself, forcing a smile on to her face. She had the bridge club, didn’t she? No, she was very happy, all things considered. And if she sometimes wondered what the point was of living for ever when you had no one to love, no one to love you, then she didn’t dwell on it for long. She was one of the lucky ones, she would remind herself. She was really very happy indeed.

  As she made her way towards the summer house, Julia wondered whether it was the same Anna. It had to be, didn’t it? But what were she and the Surplus with her planning to do? Were they just hoping to enjoy a few days of freedom before their inevitable recapture, she wondered. Or were they more ambitious – did they actually think they’d be able to hide for ever? Except it wouldn’t be for ever, would it, Julia reminded herself. They were Surplus. Their lives would be so desperately short it could hardly be worth the effort.

  Quietly, she approached the small wooden building, and tapped lightly on the window.

  ‘Anna,’ she called softly. ‘It’s me, Mrs Sharpe. I’m fairly sure you’re in there. The Catchers have gone now. Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Anna? Are you going to let me in?’

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ Peter whispered. ‘It’s probably a trick.’ He was sweating; Anna wasn’t sure whether it was pain or fear.

  She nodded mutely, trying to resist the temptation to rush out and thank Mrs Sharpe for sending the Catchers away.

  ‘Now listen to me, Anna. I need you to open the door. We’ll need to be careful because you never know when the neighbours are looking, but no one can see me here unless they’re in my house, and I can assure you, there’s no one in my house. Not at the moment, anyway. But they might come back, so we probably need to get you out of here as quickly as we can. Does that sound reasonable? Anna?’

  Anna looked at Peter. Under the curtains, all she could make out were his eyes, and she could see that they were fearful.

  ‘I trust Mrs Sharpe,’ she said, squeezing him for good measure. ‘And she didn’t let the Catchers find us.’

  Peter looked at her anxiously, then eventually he nodded, and bit by bit they peeled back the curtains.

  Peter got up and limped over to unlock the door, then shrank back towards Anna, his eyes darting around as if checking for an escape route if things turned sour.

  Mrs Sharpe edged around the furniture and then manoeuvred herself so that she was beside the bed which was leaning up against the wall. Two pairs of wide dark eyes were fixed on her, one set looking at her cautiously, the other looking at her like a puppy dog, grateful to her for not drowning it.

  ‘Oh, Anna,’ she said, as she took in the state of them – the dirt and the bruises and the matted hair. ‘Oh, my dear girl, what have you got yourself into?’

  Mrs Pincent narrowed her eyes at Frank, the lead Catcher assigned to the Grange Hall breakout.

  ‘You will catch them,’ she said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Frank smiled. ‘Always do,’ he said comfortably. ‘Of course, usually we�
��re chasing hidden Surpluses. Acting on a tip-off. It’s not often we’re chasing escapees from Surplus Halls. Don’t get that very often at all.’

  He gave Mrs Pincent a meaningful look and she glowered at him.

  ‘They got out,’ she said, her voice angry, ‘because the Authorities didn’t think to mention to me that there was a tunnel out. I can assure you there has been no other breakout in my time at Grange Hall, and nor will there be another one.’

  Frank shrugged. ‘Don’t matter either way. We’ll get them back. Haven’t got anywhere to go, have they?’

  ‘What about the Underground?’ Mrs Pincent asked, her face contorting with distaste as she spoke. ‘I think the boy might have connections. He was new, you see. Too old to come to a Surplus Hall in my opinion, but there we are.’

  Frank shrugged. ‘The Underground?’ he asked dismissively. ‘Bunch of woolly liberals, that’s all they are. All mouth and no trousers. They try to hide the odd Surplus once in a while, but we always sniff them out, don’t you worry.’

  Mrs Pincent nodded curtly. She knew all about woolly liberals. They wrote her letters from time to time, asking about the treatment of Surpluses. Sent in petitions, requesting that criminal parents be allowed to see their Surplus children on release from prison. Mrs Pincent hated liberals.

  ‘What liberals don’t understand,’ she said, suspecting that in Frank she may have found someone who shared her views on Surpluses, ‘is the price we must pay for Longevity. They live for ever in a world that is stable, prosperous and safe, and they conveniently forget what created this world for them.’

  Frank nodded, and his eyes lit up. ‘They’re ignorant, that’s all,’ he agreed heartily. ‘Poor Surpluses? Don’t make me laugh. You and I are on the front line, Mrs Pincent. We’re the ones who know the truth. If it wasn’t for us, the world would be a very different place, you know.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mrs Pincent said. ‘Now, when you catch these Surpluses, they’ll be brought back here, will they?’

  Frank nodded. ‘That’s the normal procedure. If they’re alive, of course. Sometimes, you’ll understand, there are . . . complications.’

  Mrs Pincent looked at him for a moment.

  ‘Try to keep the girl alive,’ she said, then stood up. ‘The boy probably isn’t much use, if you know what I mean.’

  Frank grinned. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Good,’ Mrs Pincent said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Now, I had a little thought. Anna did some work for a woman in the village a year or so ago. Might be worth following up. I’ve got her name somewhere in the file.’

  Sheila sat in Decorum, staring ahead at Mrs Larson and pretending to listen intently.

  Anna’s seat was bare, and no one else thought anything of it because she’d been sent to Solitary. But Sheila knew. Sheila knew what had really happened. She knew because she’d now read the whole of Anna’s diary, had read about her plans. And she also knew because she’d been awake in the early hours of the morning when Maisie had shrieked in anger.

  It had made Sheila very angry too, because Anna hadn’t taken her with her. Of all the people in Grange Hall, she was the one who deserved to leave, she told herself fervently, not Anna. Anna liked it here. Anna was a Surplus. Whereas Sheila despised every moment spent behind these grey walls, wanted more than anything to see the Outside again, to see her home, her parents.

  But still, Sheila was at least comforted by the fact that Anna wasn’t as clever as she thought she was. Anna liked to think that she thought of everything, that she was the most Valuable Surplus ever to have lived. But would a Valuable Surplus have left her journal behind? Would a truly Valuable Surplus have allowed Sheila to delicately take the journal from her pocket as she was dragged through the training room by Mr Sargent, and to hide it in her own pocket, where it joined the beautiful pink knickers she’d appropriated during Laundry?

  No, Sheila thought to herself. Anna had made a big mistake in not taking Sheila with her.

  Thrusting her hand into her pocket to feel the soft suede against her fingers, she smiled, and looked up at Mrs Larson.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Julia looked from Anna to Peter, then nodded with satisfaction. They were clean, they were dressed, Peter’s leg was bandaged up, and now they were eating, even if it had taken her for ever to get them to admit they were hungry. Their eyes kept looking up nervously, as if they expected a Catcher to walk in at any minute. They looked ridiculous, she thought to herself, with her and Anthony’s clothes hanging off them, but what was the alternative? Leave them in those horrible overalls?

  ‘You’re going to hide in a lorry, you say?’ she asked Peter and he nodded seriously.

  ‘A lorry going to London. The Underground taught me how to break into one,’ he said, and Julia thought that she could detect a hint of pride in his eyes.

  ‘And what if you can’t find a lorry going to London?’ she asked.

  ‘Then we’ll walk,’ Anna said, her voice quiet but insistent. ‘Won’t we, Peter?’

  Peter nodded. ‘We can’t tell you any more,’ he said quietly. ‘In case you’re questioned. In case they torture you.’

  ‘Torture me?’ Julia smiled. ‘Peter, they don’t torture people in this country.’

  Peter didn’t smile back.

  Julia looked at them, their faces so serious, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She could see why the Catchers had referred to the boy as a troublemaker; it was his eyes, so challenging and with a piercing look about them. They were eyes that trusted in nothing, and they made her uncomfortable around him, self-conscious.

  But she also saw the way he looked at Anna – like he didn’t know what to do with himself; the way he stiffened with pride when Julia said nice things about her; the way he hovered around her protectively, as if worried that she might at any moment disappear or be snatched away from him. She saw the way Anna looked up to him too. That girl had always looked like she willingly carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and still thought it wasn’t enough of a burden. Julia didn’t know how he’d done it – she had tried hard enough herself and got nowhere – but somehow Peter seemed to have managed to take some of the load from her. Somewhere in those dark, wide eyes, with Peter at her side, Anna might possibly have glimpsed just the smallest scrap of peace.

  Not that she’d been particularly peaceful since getting changed. Anna had changed in Julia’s bedroom, the curtains firmly closed, and had seemed happy, excited even, at first. But as soon as she’d taken off the overalls, something had changed in her. She’d gone through the pockets frantically, as though looking for something, even though she’d assured Julia that she wasn’t. Then she’d run to the back of the house to look out of the window, even though Julia had told her it was dangerous. And now, she was looking like death, her face white, little beads of sweat on her forehead, her eyes dark and full of worry. It was probably the stress of escaping, Julia decided. Perhaps she was even having second thoughts.

  ‘You’re going to stick out like sore thumbs,’ she said thoughtfully, leaning on the kitchen counter. But before either of them could reply, the phone started to ring, startling Julia and sending Anna and Peter scurrying for somewhere to hide.

  Hoping it wasn’t Barbara again, she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Julia?’ It wasn’t Barbara.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.

  ‘I wanted to check that you’re all right. I heard about the breakout.’

  Julia rolled her eyes. ‘Anthony, I’m fine. It’s two Surpluses on the loose, not two murderers.’

  ‘Still. Don’t like the thought of it. Catchers been to the house yet?’

  ‘They came this morning.’

  Julia eyed Anna and Peter cautiously and prayed that they didn’t make a sound. Anthony simply wouldn’t understand what she was doing, protecting escaped Surpluses. She wasn’t entirely sure she did either.

  ‘What’s going to happen, do you think?’ s
he asked.

  ‘Happen? Well, they’ll be caught, of course. Catchers won’t let them get away, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Julia was silent for a moment. ‘And after that? What will happen to them then?’

  ‘Happen to them?’ Anthony’s tone was incredulous. ‘Well, they’ll be punished. Locked up. If they make it, that is.’

  Julia frowned. ‘Make it?’ she asked.

  Anthony sighed. ‘If they’re still alive,’ he said. ‘Not officially condoned, of course, but Catchers do have leeway, if they’re endangered themselves. You know the sort of thing. Apparently the boy’s trouble.’

  ‘But . . . but that’s appalling,’ Julia gasped, trying not to look at Peter as she spoke. ‘They can’t do that.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you found him hiding in your house, Julia,’ Anthony said tersely. ‘You have to remember, these Surpluses have no right to life in the first place. No right at all. Each new person on this earth threatens our existence, steals resources that Legal people need to survive.’

  ‘They’re so young, though,’ Julia said quietly. ‘It seems so . . . inhumane.’

  ‘Julia, they will be caught, and they will be punished or buried and either way I hope it’s sooner rather than later,’ Anthony said briskly. ‘I don’t like knowing that my wife is in danger, and nor should you.’

  ‘You really think I’m in danger?’ Julia asked curiously.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Anthony said quickly. ‘You just keep the doors locked. Why don’t you get one of your friends round for company?’

  ‘And when will you be back home?’

  Anthony sighed. ‘I was hoping to be back this weekend, but I’m going to have to play it by ear, I’m afraid. You don’t mind, do you, Julia?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ she said quietly. ‘Well, keep me posted.’