by Gemma Malley
‘I’ve been trying to get out,’ Jude said sullenly. ‘You left me in a cupboard and I’m claustrophobic. The lights went out. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘You were trying to get out? Of Pincent Pharma? That’s interesting. I heard that someone has been clambering about above our ceilings. That wouldn’t be you, I suppose?’
Jude raised an eyebrow. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Anyway, I didn’t manage to get out, did I? So can I go now?’
‘Go?’ Mr Samuels smiled thinly. ‘Oh, I don’t think you are going anywhere, Jude. You see, we take breaches of our security very seriously, as do the Authorities. We take the lives of our guards very seriously. We take attacks on our energy supply very seriously, too. So I want you to sit down here and have a little think, because if you know anything about what’s happened here today, you are going to tell me, do you understand? Guard, take the programmer away and . . . look after him, will you?’
The guard nodded, immediately, and pulled the programmer from his chair, who shot a terrified look in Jude’s direction before stumbling out of the room.
Richard Pincent slammed down the phone and looked over at Hillary who was sitting primly on a sofa near his desk.
‘You see?’ he said, relief surging through him and a look of triumph spread all over his face. ‘Energy has been restored.’
‘And the culprit?’
‘Information will be passed to the Authorities at the relevant time,’ Richard said. ‘Investigations are still underway.’
‘Good. Because we will want to see a comprehensive report. Security breaches at Pincent Pharma reflect badly on the Authorities, Richard. They raise all sorts of questions about competence. And there’s the issue of your grandson, Richard. How can you be sure he will follow the script? It’s very important that he does – for confidence in you, in the Pincent Pharma brand. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ Richard said. ‘Trust me, Peter knows what he has to do.’ He could feel his blood pressure rising, could feel his heart pounding away in his chest like an out-of-control train rushing down the tracks; he would need a new one in a matter of days, would ensure that one was grown for him immediately.
‘I hope so, for your sake,’ Hillary said darkly. Richard turned his chair around so that he could look out at the river. Across the river he could see the dim, dull lights of the Authorities’ various buildings. All afternoon Pincent Pharma’s switchboard had been inundated by calls from people within those same buildings perturbed by the lack of light emanating from his side of the river, asking with barely concealed delight whether there were ‘any problems’. He knew full well that there was nothing the Secretary General would like more than an excuse to take Pincent Pharma into state control. Today had to go well. Peter had to follow the script.
‘Shall we go?’ he asked, forcing a smile.
‘Yes,’ Hillary said sternly, standing up and brushing out imagined creases in her skirt. ‘Let’s.’
Mr Samuels pointed to the programmer’s vacated chair; when Jude sat down, it was hot and wet from his sweat.
‘And now,’ Mr Samuels said, ‘you will tell me everything you know. If you don’t, you will experience pain beyond anything you have ever imagined. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ Jude said calmly. He expected to be terrified, was waiting for the panic to set in. But, strangely, he felt neither of those things. He felt alive. He felt, for the first time in his whole life, like he mattered, like he was part of something good.
He pretended to frown at the computer screen. ‘You want me to track the problem with your energy? My rate is five thousand a day,’ he said.
‘Four of my guards are dead,’ Mr Samuels said, his voice low and angry. ‘Is it a coincidence that guards were killed on the very day you enter the building? That our energy system goes down also? I don’t believe in coincidence, Jude.’
‘Dead?’ Jude said, shaking his head incredulously and noting archly to himself that Derek Samuels wasn’t mentioning anything about some missing Surpluses. ‘But you can’t think I had anything to do with it. I’ve been locked up all this time.’
Derek Samuels stared at him icily for a few seconds before standing up. ‘You have five minutes,’ he said. ‘Five minutes to tell me what’s going on.’
Jude’s eyes flicked down to his watch. The press conference would be starting soon. He was fairly sure Derek Samuels would want to be there.
‘Look, I wish I could help, I do,’ he said, playing for time. ‘But this is really nothing to do with me. None of it.’
As he spoke, the door flew open and a man appeared in the doorway.
‘Derek, we’re starting now.’
Jude felt his heart quicken as he realised who it was. Richard Pincent, regularly described as the most powerful man in the world. He was wearing a suit; his voice was relaxed. He didn’t know, Jude realised. He couldn’t know.
‘The guards are in place,’ Derek Samuels said, immediately standing up. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Richard nodded, then he moved closer, his eyes glistening dangerously. ‘Behind me?’ he asked. ‘No, Derek, not behind me. You’ll go now and you’ll get Peter. You will escort him personally to the lobby and you will satisfy yourself that everything is as it should be. Then you will make it absolutely clear to my grandson that if he does not do exactly as he is told, his little friend will be locked up for the rest of her short life. Do you understand? There will be no more problems today. Nothing will go wrong – do I make myself absolutely clear?’
‘Yes, sir. Perfectly.’ Mr Samuels nodded; Jude could see a drop of sweat wending its way down the side of his face. ‘Mr Pincent, about the girl.’
‘Yes?’ His face was like thunder, Jude found himself thinking. ‘She’s been dealt with?’
Derek Samuels hesistated. ‘Yes, sir. Yes, that’s right.’
‘Good. I’m waiting, Derek.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Derek Samuels grabbed two guards and ordered them to hold Jude. ‘Hold on to him until the conference is over,’ he said. ‘Keep him where you can see him. Where I can see him. Where everyone can see him,’ he said, his own fear appearing to compound his anger. He leant in close so that his face was just centimetres from Jude’s. ‘Once everyone has gone,’ he whispered darkly, ‘you and I are going to spend some time together. By the end of it, you’ll be begging to tell me everything. And if I let you go, eventually, you’ll still never be free. Because you’ll always know that I’m there, behind you, watching everything you do, waiting to hurt you again. You can run as far as you like, fabricate as many identities as you like, but you won’t escape me. No one ever does.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Pincent Pharma lobby seemed strangely silent without the constant whirring of the escalators. Rows of chairs were filled with journalists waiting silently; Richard watched them for a second or two before making his way to the front. He had arranged for a spotlight to shine on him as he mounted the podium; it had exactly the effect he’d hoped for. As he walked towards the lectern, the assembled journalists gasped and stared up at him, the prophet on the mount, the bearer of light. Gravely, he looked out over the Pincent Pharma lobby. Every newspaper was represented; every news feed, every radio station.
To the right, Peter sat with Derek Samuels on one side watching him, to keep him in check, and Hillary on the other. In front of Peter were the exact words that he was to say to the journalists. Richard looked over briefly and noticed that Hillary was watching him beadily.
Richard stepped forward.
‘Welcome, one and all,’ he said confidently, his voice resounding across the lobby. ‘Welcome to a most important press conference. And may I apologise wholeheartedly for our energy cut-out this afternoon – we are upgrading our current system and this temporary lapse in power was unfortunately a side effect of the implementation programme. However, as you can see, everything is now back to normal. So, to the point of tod
ay’s press conference – I’m delighted to have with me Hillary Wright, Deputy Secretary General of the Authorities, and Peter Pincent, my grandson who, as some of you will know, has been working with me over the past few weeks.’
Richard frowned slightly as he noticed two guards whispering fervently to each other, their faces serious; they felt his gaze upon them and immediately fell silent. Richard’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he smiled back at his audience.
‘As I think was intimated in your invitations to today’s event, there are two significant announcements that we are making today; both are close to my heart and both, I think, will emphasise the continued commitment of the Pincents, and Pincent Pharma, to the Authorities’ aims of Comfort, Health, Wealth and Learning. For today we are launching the prototype of Longevity+, the next phase of Longevity, which could be in production in as soon as six months, pending Authorities’ approval which, I understand, is very likely to be forthcoming.’
Two doctors appeared at the back of the hall. Richard frowned – they worked in Unit X. He hadn’t asked them to attend. But instead of sitting down, they seemed intent on talking to a guard; moments later, they left with two of them.
‘Imagine, if you will,’ Richard continued, smiling at the journalists before him, his fingers drumming on the lectern, ‘feeling as you did when you were truly young. As young as my grandson here, in fact.’
Everyone now stared at Peter. Feeling slightly warm under the lights, Richard took the opportunity to pull out a handkerchief, and he mopped his brow before quickly scanning his notes.
‘Imagine feeling that sense of vitality, of energy, every morning,’ he continued. His eyes flickered over to Hillary – her face was stony, unreadable. ‘Imagine, if you will, the benefits of Longevity being extended to the outer body as well as the inner one. Because that, in a nutshell, is Longevity+. Renewal in the fullest sense of the word. Not just eternal life, but eternal youth.’
The assembled reporters gasped and looked suitably impressed.
‘Of course,’ Richard said seriously, beginning to relax slightly, ‘such drugs are not produced easily. There are funding requirements, extensive research, substantial production costs. But,’ he said, turning again to Hillary before beaming at the reporters in front of him, ‘I am confident that the Authorities will meet the needs and desires of our people and ensure that funding of Longevity+ is prioritised above all other funding areas.’
He met Hillary’s eyes; she smiled thinly.
‘Before I ask Hillary to talk to you about grants and funding, perhaps you will allow me to move on to the second announcement of the day – a personal announcement, as it happens, but one which I believe also has a wider significance. For today, my grandson, Peter Pincent, is to sign the Declaration.’ He shot a benevolent look in Peter’s direction; Peter looked back stonily. ‘As you will know, Peter has had a difficult start in life, a chequered past, if you will. But he is a Pincent, something which he has demonstrated all too well in his time at Pincent Pharma. I wanted you all to share in this momentous step for him, his move into adulthood, into this brave and wondrous world that Longevity has created for us. Ladies and gentlemen, my grandson, Peter.’
Unsteadily, Peter rose to his feet. He made his way to the podium, where his grandfather was carefully flattening out his Declaration and motioning for the photographer to make his way over in order to catch the moment. With a flourish, he handed Peter a pen and moved back so that Peter could sign.
‘Right there, at the bottom,’ he said, under his breath. ‘One signature. Do it quickly.’
Peter stared at the document.
‘Do it or Anna disappears for ever, you understand?’ Richard hissed, then grinned at the photographers surrounding them. ‘Stage fright, I think,’ he said jovially. ‘Boy’s not used to all this attention.’
Then, suddenly, Peter looked up at the journalists. ‘Actually,’ he said seriously, ‘I’d like to say a few words. If that’s OK?’
Richard felt his chest constrict. ‘A few words?’ he said through gritted teeth, moving in and trying to manoeuvre Peter away from the podium. ‘Peter, perhaps now isn’t the time for . . .’
‘Speak!’ A journalist interrupted. ‘Let’s hear from Peter Pincent.’
‘Yes. Peter Pincent,’ another chimed.
Reluctantly, Richard let go of his grandson. ‘Very well,’ he said, smiling benevolently again, for the benefit of the reporters. ‘A few words.’ Then he turned around. ‘Think of the girl before you say anything stupid,’ he whispered into Peter’s ear. ‘You will be sending her to a place far worse than Grange Hall, and this time there will be no escape. She will die in there, believe me.’
Peter nodded soberly, and moved towards the microphone.
‘As my grandfather has said, I’ve been at Pincent Pharma a while now, and in that time I’ve learnt a great deal about science, about Longevity, about the beauty of those white pills, the work that has gone into them, the potential they release,’ he said. Around him, journalists were nodding and taking notes, and he took a deep breath.
‘Each of us, I think, reaches a point where we search for the meaning in life, the point of it all. And my time at Pincent Pharma has really helped me in my search,’ he said. ‘It’s made me realise what’s important. Family. Loyalty. Progress.’
He shot a smile at his grandfather, who was staring at him, a false smile fixed on his face.
‘Which is why,’ he said calmly, ‘I am not going to be signing the Declaration today. Or any day, in fact.’
There was a gasp from the floor.
‘Of course you are,’ his grandfather interrupted menacingly. ‘Of course he is. Right now. Aren’t you, Peter?’
Peter smiled. ‘Actually, no. You see, what I want is life. A real life, full of moments of joy, of anguish, of irritation, of fun. A life with an end point, which makes each second important. A life that is full of love, that doesn’t cause suffering and pain. Because that’s what Longevity does. It enslaves people, it ruins them.
‘This,’ he said quickly pulling off his prized ring, the ring he’d kept so carefully. ‘I thought it represented life. I thought it was important. But it isn’t.’ He looked at the ring for a second, the flower engraved on one side, ‘AF’ engraved on the other. Albert Fern. His great-grandfather’s ring. Looking back at the assembled journalists, he hurled it to the back of the room, throwing his grandfather a triumphant look. ‘It’s a Pincent family heirloom. And I despise the Pincents. I’d rather die than be a Pincent.’
‘And who knows, you may get your wish,’ his grandfather hissed angrily, as two guards appeared at Peter’s side, and started to drag him off the podium.
‘I don’t want anything to do with this place where Surpluses are tortured, where breeding farms are set up just so that people don’t have to have wrinkles. I want a life where people actually enjoy themselves,’ Peter shouted. ‘A life where people have children and mess and they don’t bury their heads in the sand and ignore what’s going on around them . . .’
‘You will regret this,’ his grandfather whispered angrily as he passed him. ‘Anna too.’
‘You don’t even know where Anna is,’ Peter shot back. ‘You should look for the Surpluses, too, while you’re at it.’ He tried to push the guards off, but they were too strong for him; a heavy hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him as they dragged him towards the side of the lobby.
His grandfather’s face crumpled with confusion; Peter shot him a triumphant parting glance as he was pulled away.
‘Wait! Peter! What was that about breeding farms?’ a journalist shouted, jumping to his feet.
Another stood up. ‘Mr Pincent,’ he called out, ‘is it true that Surpluses are being tortured to make Longevity+? Do you have anything to say about your grandson’s accusations?’
Richard looked around, thinking quickly. Peter was struggling violently with his guards; more and more journalists were standing up, shouting their questions.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he called out, raising his hands to calm them. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please, a moment.’
The noise level reduced slightly; some of the journalists sat down.
‘As you know,’ Richard continued, his eyes moving beadily around the room, ‘my grandson Peter started out life as a Surplus, brainwashed by the Underground’s pernicious members, moulded into a dangerous and criminal mind. His mother was also a criminal, and perhaps that should have been a warning to me. I had hoped very much that by employing him here, by giving him the best chances available, he might be rehabilitated.’ He shook his head. ‘Sadly, I think that today has shown that rehabilitation is simply impossible. It is evident to me now that Surpluses are not able to adapt into our civilised society, that they can’t grasp the opportunities that we offer them. We want what’s best for them, ladies and gentlemen, but that doesn’t mean they want what’s best for themselves . . .’
‘Are you saying that Surpluses shouldn’t be made Legal?’ a journalist shouted out. ‘Are you saying your grandson shouldn’t be allowed his freedom?’
‘I’m saying,’ Richard said levelly, ‘that perhaps we need to review the Surplus Act. I’m saying that what Peter has said today is full of lies, full of misinformation. He knows nothing of the workings of Pincent Pharma, or of the development of Longevity+. I’m saying that I apologise for his outburst. I should have realised how completely the Underground had brainwashed him; should have anticipated that he might try to sabotage this important event.’
There was a murmuring on the floor, a few nods of agreement. Then the murmuring became more vocal as the journalists began to turn to the back of the lobby. Frowning, Richard Pincent noticed someone moving at the back of the room. Then he heard a gasp, more gasps, and someone shouting, ‘He’s got a gun.’ It was only then that he saw the youth. At first he thought that a guard was holding him, then he realised that it was the boy who was pressing something into the guard’s back and dragging him to the side of the room.
