Grange Hall was a Modern-Georgian building, built in 2070. Its design was based on Sutton Park, an old stately home in Yorkshire which had been built in 1730 and had long since crumbled to the ground. Photographs remained, however, and its style was admired very much by the present Authorities, who had decided that all government buildings should be built to resemble it, although in grey, not cream, because that colour withstood the elements better, and with lower ceilings. Lower ceilings meant lower heating requirements in the winter, and with the stringent tariffs for energy the Authorities been forced to impose, high ceilings were a luxury few could afford these days.
Initially, Grange Hall had housed the Revenue and Benefits Department, but it was soon declared too small, and was left empty for several years until the Surplus Act was introduced and the idea of Surplus Halls mooted. The original idea had been to create new, dedicated buildings for Surpluses, with the latest technology and teaching tools to develop an obedient, hard-working and amenable workforce; in the meantime, Grange Hall was hurriedly converted to house the growing number of Surpluses being gathered up around the country. Over the years, plans and papers had been periodically submitted by the Longevity and Surplus Department – usually when someone new had been given the Surplus remit – plans for new buildings, for merging the three UK Surplus Halls into one, for moving to the European model of deportation. But each time, nothing was done, because change carried risks, because change led to instability, because new technology meant using precious energy, and because, at the end of the day, no one really cared. And so, lethargy prevailed and Grange Hall was now the oldest Surplus Hall, its carpets and wall colours unchanged from its time as a government building, the smell of red tape and frustration still lingering in its very fabric.
Margaret Pincent hated the low ceilings of Grange Hall. She’d been brought up by her father to believe that stature directly influenced the height of one’s ceilings. Those who could pull enough strings to get hold of extra energy coupons enjoyed the highest ceilings; everyone else was forced to accept lower ceilings, to crouch and bow and scrape just to keep warm. Mrs Pincent’s father would bow to no man, he had told her regularly, so why should he be forced to bow by his own house?
Her father had never visited Grange Hall, of course, and had never shown any interest in it. It was hardly surprising; Mrs Pincent and he had not actually spoken for over fourteen years. Not since . . .
Well, not for a long time. Mrs Pincent felt the familiar anger clenching in her stomach and the nauseous feeling welling up her throat as memories she worked so hard to suppress found their way back into her mind. The unfairness. The shame.
But what was the use remembering? No point crying over spilt milk, she thought bitterly. Those were the exact words her father had used when the truth had come out. And when her husband had left her, her father had made it clear that he wouldn’t be able to offer her any financial assistance; no assistance of any kind. That she would understand if he didn’t see her again.
It had been left to Margaret Pincent to fend for herself, and fend she did. She’d seen the job advertised at Grange Hall and, ignoring the irony of the situation, had applied. Few people were interested in working with Surpluses, it seemed; in spite of her complete lack of qualifications and enthusiasm for the job, it had been offered to her straight away. And here she’d been, ever since, doing her best to break any spirit that the Supluses in her care might be tempted to exhibit; seeing it as her duty to treat the children as harshly as possible without rendering them completely useless. She was not running a holiday camp, and was not here to be a surrogate mother. These children did not deserve to be on this earth, and if they had to exist then they were going to be put to work. They were going to make up for their very presence, were going to carry the weight of their guilt with them everywhere they went. That was Margaret Pincent’s promise to herself, and it was one that she had, so far, been able to keep.
Until now, that is. Until Peter arrived. It had been just a week and already she had seen the signs she’d been dreading ever since she took on the role of House Matron. The look of defiance. The refusal to obey her. The lack of respect. Mrs Pincent hated many things, but above all she hated not to be respected.
This is what happened when they didn’t find Surpluses early enough, she thought to herself angrily. As far as the Catchers were concerned, it was probably a triumph to find a Surplus at this late stage, when his parents thought they’d got away with it. No doubt there was a publicity campaign being carefully managed right now to celebrate this great success. But what about her? How was Grange Hall supposed to train someone who had been on the Outside for so long? And they didn’t tell her anything, of course. A phone call a few hours before he arrived, telling her he was on the way, that was all. Telling her. Not asking if it would be OK, not asking for her advice, oh no. She was to prepare a bed, she was told. This one was likely to need some special treatment, they said. He’s been on the Outside rather a long time. He was found in the middle of nowhere and we don’t know where he’s come from. We’ll want to keep an eye on him.
‘Why do you want to keep an eye on him?’ Margaret Pincent had wanted to ask. ‘Why did you find him so late? Where do you think he might have been?’
But of course, she didn’t ask. And even if she had, she would have been met with silence. After all this time, they still didn’t trust her. Not really. And that meant that she didn’t trust anyone either. Not one little bit.
Still, for the time being her priority had to be this new Surplus, to prove she could manage him. The trouble was, he didn’t react like the other Surpluses. There were always one or two who thought they were something special; one or two who thought that they could get round her, play the system a bit. Surpluses who felt they were better than the rest.
But there were tried and trusted tools and techniques to deal with them. Beatings. Humiliation. Making them feel so wretched that they started hating their parents for putting them in this position, for bringing them into this awful world. You had to get them to hate their parents; that was the key.
That boy Patrick had been the last Surplus to create real problems, but his anger had just been bravado; he’d broken soon enough, once he was really put to work. Funny that Anna, her most obedient Surplus, was desperate to go to the place she’d sent Patrick to be worked to death. Nothing like building in the desert heat to give a rebellious Surplus a bit of perspective. Not that the Authorities knew about that, of course. Selling Surpluses as slave labour wasn’t strictly approved of by officials, just as getting involved in black market Longevity drugs wasn’t exactly in her job description. But perhaps they should pay her a better wage if they didn’t want her supplementing her income from time to time. And anyway, no one had missed him. His file had been lost, and no questions had been asked.
Sometimes the system made mistakes, of course. There had been the situation recently with a Surplus called Sheila who, it turned out, was actually the progeny of two Opt Outs. The fools had gone away for the weekend, leaving the child with its grandparents. Their neighbours had heard the child cry and, assuming it was a Surplus, had called the Catchers to secure their reward. The parents had appealed, of course, but Mrs Pincent had held firm. The grandparents didn’t have a licence; technically the Catchers had been well within the law in confiscating Sheila. Technically, during her stay with her grandparents, Sheila was indeed a Surplus.
The fact was that you couldn’t start sending children back after every little mistake; there would be no end to it. And if Sheila had been returned to her parents, it would have stirred up the other Surpluses. Given them hope. Hope was the last thing you wanted to encourage in a Surplus. No, she had done the right thing. Five times Sheila’s parents had come to see her – not to Grange Hall, of course, but to the London office; no one was allowed within a mile of any Surplus Hall for security reasons. Five times her mother had broken down, clutching at Mrs Pincent’s ankles and begging for her little girl back – it had been embarrassing, really. Uncomfortable.
But Mrs Pincent wouldn’t give in. Why should she? Sheila was a good age. She could still be a Valuable Asset, no doubt about it at all. More than a Valuable Asset, if Mrs Pincent had her way. Sheila, like all female Surpluses and, to a lesser extent, male Surpluses, had value that her parents knew nothing about. Young stem cells. Youth in every atom of her body, which laboratories were crying out for all around the world. You couldn’t explain that to the parents, of course, particularly since they’d Opted Out. But others would be grateful. Renewal was a hungry beast; it needed constant feeding.
Peter, on the other hand, was different. When he arrived, he’d actually looked pleased with himself, the arrogant little twerp. He’d looked her right in the eye, and there was something mocking about his face. It was as if he was saying to her ‘I know. I know the truth about you.’ But of course, she was just imagining that. She had to be; how could a Surplus know anything? He was just clever, that was all. He had spotted a weakness and was using it to his advantage.
Still, real or not, it made her hate him. And, worse, it made her afraid of letting him leave until the look had gone. Sending him to the desert like that was too dangerous; what if he did know something, however unlikely the prospect was? It didn’t look like she’d be able to lose his file either, not if they were keeping an eye on him.
The whole situation was intolerable. She would have to deal with him herself. And if he thought that Margaret Pincent was weak, he had another thing coming. If the week of beatings and starvation when he first arrived hadn’t done the trick, there were other more interesting methods. Sleep deprivation. More Solitary. Leave him in that cell until he was so desperate for company he cried out her name.
She thought for a moment, then smiled briefly. Perhaps she should attack him with kindness first. That was how you really destroyed a Surplus: make it think you love it before abusing its trust so completely that it could never trust another human being again. Yes, she thought with a satisfied nod, she would break Peter. And when she had broken him completely, then she would get rid of him. The Authorities would have to lump it. It wouldn’t be much of a loss – even broken, Peter was unlikely to be of any use to anyone.
Anna sat with her eyes focused on the food in front of her. She didn’t want to see Peter. Didn’t want to even acknowledge his existence. Although, when a quick scan of Central Feeding revealed that, strangely, Peter wasn’t even there, she felt something close to disappointment because that meant he wouldn’t have seen how forcefully she’d been ignoring him. Sighing with irritation that even by being absent Peter seemed able to annoy her, Anna finished her porridge and got up to go.
But just as she was about to clear away her breakfast bowl and plastic cup, Peter appeared in the doorway, flanked by Mrs Pincent, his gaunt frame towering over the House Matron’s. Mrs Pincent found Anna’s eyes and nodded for her to come over.
‘I want you to look after Peter,’ she said matter-of-factly, as soon as Anna had walked over. ‘He has come to us late, and seems to be finding it hard to fit in. I want you to show him the ropes, help him learn. And make sure he has an extra blanket on his bed. Now, Peter, I expect you’ll be hungry. Anna, can you make sure Peter has some porridge before training starts this morning?’
Anna’s heart sank, but she didn’t react, except to nod silently. An extra blanket was unheard of, except for Prefects, and Mrs Pincent’s almost familial language – ‘show him the ropes, help him learn’ – was unfamiliar and strange. But Anna knew better than to say anything. Not while Mrs Pincent was standing so close, anyway.
Once she was gone, that was a different matter. As Mrs Pincent disappeared down the corridor, Anna turned to Peter.
‘I don’t know what you’ve done, but Mrs Pincent certainly seems to like you now. Still think she’s evil?’ she said haughtily.
Peter shrugged, and shivered involuntarily, making Anna soften slightly.
‘I’ll get you some breakfast,’ she said cautiously, ‘and I’ll show you the ropes. But no more stories. No more sneaking around late at night. I’m a Prefect, and if I’m going to help you you’re going to have to Learn Your Place.’
Peter nodded sagely. ‘Thank you,’ he said under his breath. ‘Thank you, Anna Covey.’
Anna sighed irritably. This was going to be a long day.