Chapter Fifteen

After what had felt like the longest morning he’d ever experienced, Peter stared listlessly at his chicken stew with extra iron and the tranqua-smoothie which his palm print had ordered for him; it was supposed to both boost his immune system and lower his blood pressure. What he really needed, though, was something to relieve the pain in his head and the feeling of nausea that crept through his body every time he thought of Anna, of the Declaration, of the choice that lay before him.

‘I didn’t know you were stressed,’ Dr Edwards said, sitting down and eyeing the smoothie. ‘Anything you’d like to talk about?’

Peter shook his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he said flatly. ‘Those machines don’t know what they’re talking about.’

Dr Edwards smiled. ‘I see. Hundreds of years of research and technological development dismissed out of hand. Well, I suppose you could be right. But then again, your dilated pupils, the frown lines above your eyes and the fact that you’ve been staring at your food for a full five minutes without even picking up a spoon suggest to me that perhaps the machine might know what it’s talking about. So to speak.’

His eyes were twinkling, but Peter was in no mood for his humour.

‘Fine,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’ll have my tranqua-smoothie.’ He picked it up and drank some – to his surprise, it was delicious. He intended to put it down after one or two gulps, but somehow the instruction didn’t reach his hand or his mouth and moments later, the glass was drained. He put it down and sat back in his chair; he felt warm, nourished, slightly light-headed, a bit like he’d felt years ago when he first met the Coveys, when they put him to bed and read him a story and told him that he’d be safe with them.

He started to eat his stew.

‘I take it your mood is not related to the codes I had you memorising this morning?’ Dr Edwards asked, then he sat back in his chair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business. If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to.’

‘I don’t,’ Peter said firmly, putting his spoon down. Then he studied Dr Edwards’ face cautiously. Actually, he did want to talk. The very fact surprised him.

‘You know about the Surplus Sterilisation Programme?’ he asked, a few moments later.

Dr Edwards frowned. ‘Sterilisation? No, Peter. I can’t say that I do. Is it new?’

‘Not new.’ Peter paused briefly, looking up at the cameras, then he lowered his voice. ‘Just new to me.’ He paused again, trying to swallow the lump that had appeared in his throat. ‘Turns out I’m not going to be much use at propagating the human race after all. Nor is Anna. They sterilise Surpluses when they’re caught. They just don’t think to tell anyone.’ He attempted a casual laugh; it came out sounding bitter and angry.

‘Peter, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’ Dr Edwards looked truly sympathetic; Peter just shrugged.

‘Yeah, well,’ he said, returning to his bowl and spooning more stew into his mouth. ‘I guess I should have expected something like that.’

‘How could you expect that? It must be very difficult for you.’

Peter thought for a moment.

‘Kind of.’ He put his spoon down and looked up at Dr Edwards, at his kind smile and worried eyes. ‘It’s worse for Anna,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s set on the idea of having children, thinks that it’s her purpose in life or something.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’ Peter cleared his throat, playing for time. ‘I don’t know what my purpose is,’ he said eventually. ‘Maybe I don’t even have one.’

‘Of course you have one. And Anna will find a new one, I’m sure of it.’

‘Anna doesn’t know yet.’

‘Ah. Now I understand the machine’s reading.’

‘I want her to understand.’

‘To understand?’

Peter bit his lip. ‘That it isn’t my fault. That I didn’t want this . . .’

‘You feel guilty?’

‘No. Maybe. I don’t know how to tell her. I don’t know where to start.’

‘I think you won’t know until you’ve tried. Why don’t you go now?’

‘Really?’ Peter looked up hopefully.

‘Really. You’re a good student, Peter, but you’re not invaluable. Not yet, anyway.’

To his surprise, Peter found himself grinning. He felt so much better. Unburdened. Light. And warm, in a fuzzy kind of way. ‘Thanks, Dr Edwards. Thanks very much. I’ll . . . I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Standing up, Peter made his way out of the canteen, swaying slightly as he walked. As he brushed by tables, knocking into one or two, he realised that he no longer viewed the other people eating lunch as enemies. One or two of them even smiled at him as he walked past. If he signed the Declaration and took Longevity, he found himself thinking, would he still be here in a hundred years, or would he be somewhere else completely? The questions floated around his head, but they didn’t vex him. He felt calm, confident and self-assured for the first time in a very long time. He felt sure that he could win Anna over. After all, he thought to himself as he left Pincent Pharma and waved briefly at the smiling security guard, he had all the time in the world to do it.

Peter was humming as he approached the house. His despair from the night before felt alien and strange now, like a bad dream. He felt sure that Anna would see things as he did, that she, too, would embrace the chance to live for ever, once she’d got over her initial disappointment. Even their house didn’t look quite so bad that morning – sure, it was still a complete hole, but it was their hole. It was their home, for now, until they were ready to move on. And they would be moving on soon, he was sure of it. He was going to achieve something with his life; he was going to make some money and within a few years he’d be able to move them out of the suburbs, whatever the Authorities had to say about it. He’d buy a bigger house where Ben had room to play and he’d fill it with books for Anna. Perhaps they’d travel, too – Anna had always said that she wanted to see the desert and now that they had for ever stretching out ahead of them, they could go there for as long as she pleased. They’d take a boat or a train; it would be an adventure. One of many adventures. They’d never get bored because they’d never stop discovering new things, never stop exploring and learning. Longevity wasn’t bad in itself; it was just that most people were ignorant and dull and they didn’t know how to use their time. They sat around worrying about their wrinkles instead of seeing their long lives as a huge opportunity. He and Anna would be different. He and Anna would make every minute count. He and Anna would make something of themselves.

Pulling out his keys, Peter opened the door and sauntered into the kitchen. Anna, who was on the floor playing with Ben, looked up in shock.

‘Have you been fired?’ she asked, her eyes wide. ‘What happened? How dare they?’

Peter grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t been fired; I was just given a few hours off for good behaviour.’

‘Good behaviour?’ Anna looked perplexed.

‘Hello, little one!’ Peter scooped Ben into his arms and held him above his head, smiling as Ben squealed in delight. Then, handing Ben back to Anna, he pulled a box out of his bag. ‘Chocolates,’ he said. ‘Thought you might like them.’

‘Thank you!’ Anna took his gift, her eyes still following him uncertainly. ‘And you’re sure everything’s all right?’

‘Of course.’ Peter pulled out a chair from the table and sat on it. Then he looked at Anna, seriously. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday. I was an idiot.’

Anna’s face flushed. ‘No, you weren’t. You were just tired. It must be awful working at Pincent Pharma, Peter. But you can’t let it get to you. We don’t have to sign the Declaration. There are still people fighting. There are still people who care about Surpluses and nature. Really there are.’

‘It’s not that,’ Peter said, smiling awkwardly. ‘I mean, I know there are people fighting. And that’s great. But it doesn’t mean everyone has to . . . It doesn’t mean that Opting Out is the only way.’

Anna’s brow wrinkled in incomprehension and she pulled Ben to her. ‘But I don’t see how it isn’t,’ she said. ‘Signing the Declaration means agreeing not to . . . It means you extend your own life in place of new life. It’s against Mother Nature. It’s . . . it’s wrong, Peter. It’s because of the Declaration that there are Surpluses. It’s because of the Declaration that there are Catchers and mothers crying themselves to sleep because their babies were taken from them. It’s because of the Declaration that Grange Hall exists . . .’

Her voice had grown smaller and her face was hot. Peter took a deep breath.

‘The thing is, Anna, sometimes people don’t have a choice. And that changes things.’

Why was he so weak, he chastised himself. Why couldn’t he just tell her?

‘Everyone has a choice,’ Anna said. Her voice was still quiet, but there was steel in it.

‘Not everyone.’ He cleared his throat, which had suddenly grown tight. Ben started crying, and Anna stood up, jigging him about and soothing him.

‘Is that what they told you at Pincent Pharma?’ she asked darkly, not meeting his eyes. ‘Is that what your grandfather said? You can’t trust him, Peter, you know that. You can’t trust anyone. Not even the Underground. Not necessarily.’

Peter stared at her strangely then remembered his argument with Pip the night before. He wondered how much she had heard of it.

‘Do you trust me?’ he asked. The tranqua-smoothie’s effects were beginning wear off; Peter could feel his muscles tightening, could hear his voice becoming slightly strangled, insecure.

Anna nodded. ‘Of course I do. I trust you completely.’

‘You’d sign the Declaration if I asked you to?’

‘You’d never ask me,’ Anna said, looking intently at Ben. ‘You hate Longevity. You hate Pincent Pharma. You hate . . .’

Peter looked at her, at her pale translucent skin, at the fiery determination in her eyes – the same determination he’d fallen in love with the first time he’d seen her. Even within the confines of Grange Hall, she’d managed to retain an air of dignity, of authority; now, he couldn’t bear to be the one to strip it away, and he dropped his head into his hands.

‘What I hate is that you don’t know the truth. Anna, we don’t have a choice,’ he said. ‘The Underground lied to us.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Anna said, shaking her head firmly. ‘We have to Opt Out. We are the Next Generation and we’ll be the parents of the generation after us. We’re going to live for ever through our children. That’s how it’s meant to be, Peter. It’s what you said. You know that.’

‘Anna, we can’t have children.’ He said it almost silently, and afterwards he couldn’t be entirely sure that he’d spoken the words at all. Anna was looking at him helplessly, confused. ‘We can’t have children because of the Surplus Sterilisation Programme,’ he continued, finding the courage from somewhere to look her in the eye as he spoke. ‘I found out about it yesterday. I . . .’

Slowly, Anna’s face changed from incomprehension to disbelief. Peter pulled out the report, the report he’d stolen from his grandfather, and handed it to her. She put it on the table in front of her, staring at it blankly.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Peter continued. ‘The Authorities did it. At Grange Hall.’

‘No.’ Anna’s voice was unrecognisable. ‘No, it’s not true.’

‘It’s OK, Anna,’ Peter found himself saying. ‘Because we’ll still be together. And we’ll have for ever to make a difference.’

‘I don’t want for ever,’ Anna whispered. She was shaking; her eyes were slightly glassy.

‘You just need to get used to the idea, Anna,’ Peter said quickly, grabbing her hands to try to calm her. He had to make her see, had to open her eyes to the possibilities so she could see things as he did. ‘Longevity’s amazing – it’s incredible, actually. And we’ll have time to do everything you’ve ever wanted to do. We can go to the desert. We can travel around the world. You can read every book that’s ever been written, and write a million, too.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Anna said, her voice barely audible. ‘Why are you saying this?’

‘Anna, you have to know the truth. I was angry too, but it happened. Even Pip knew about it. He wanted us to Opt Out, Anna, even though we can’t have children, just to stick two fingers up at the Authorities. It’s the Underground who lied.’

Anna’s eyes returned to the piece of paper in front of her, then flickered around the room. And then her mouth opened and she let out a moan so loud, so guttural, Peter could hardly believe it was emanating from her.

‘No,’ she screamed. ‘No. Please, no. Please . . .’

Her face was contorted, flushed, and Peter flinched.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m as sorry as you are, believe me.’

But instead of nodding, as he’d hoped, instead of accepting their fate as he had done, Anna pushed back her chair and stood up, her face scornful and her eyes as black as thunder. ‘You’re not sorry,’ she shouted, desperately. ‘You’re pleased. You’ve changed, Peter. You’ve become like them. You want me to sign the Declaration and I won’t. I’ll never sign, Peter, not as long as I live. I won’t . . .’ She stared at him for a few seconds, as if to come up with the right words, her body shaking as she stood in front of him.

‘I haven’t changed,’ Peter implored, trying to convince himself as well as her, wondering who was listening to this conversation, what they were thinking. ‘I’ve just seen the light. Be sensible, Anna. You have to. I need you. It’s you and me, together. I can’t do it without you, Anna. Please don’t leave me.’

‘You’re the one who’s leaving,’ Anna said, shaking her head at Peter, reinforcing all his self-doubt, all his self-loathing. ‘I won’t ever sign, Peter. I don’t care what you say.’

As Peter looked at her, he could feel a black, silent rage rising up inside him, because she wouldn’t understand, because of what he was doing to her.

‘You know,’ he said, his voice bitter, ‘I’ve never trusted anyone. Not until I met you. And I thought I could depend on you, I really did. But now . . . I should have known you’d let me down in the end too. Thanks, Anna. Thanks for nothing.’

He looked away from her, couldn’t bear to see the hurt in her eyes. She stood in front of him for seconds, minutes – he wasn’t sure. And then, silently, clutching Ben to her, she left the kitchen and ran up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her.