The Declaration

The Catchers would find them.
    ‘Oh,’ she heard Mrs Sharpe say. ‘Well, that’s funny . . .’
    ‘The key’s gone?’
    There was a long pause. ‘Ah, I remember,’ Mrs Sharpe said suddenly. ‘My husband took it. For safe keeping.’
    ‘Perhaps we should break the door down,’ one of the men suggested.
    ‘You can try, but I don’t think my husband would like it,’ Mrs Sharpe said quickly. ‘And I don’t see how anyone could be in there anyway, if the door’s locked. You may know my husband, actually. Anthony Sharpe? He’s with the Interior Ministry.’
    There was silence then for a few seconds, during which Anna barely dared to breathe.
    ‘I know of Mr Sharpe, yes,’ one of the men said. ‘I didn’t realise that you were . . . are . . . Well, we won’t intrude any longer, will we, men? Thank you, Mrs Sharpe, for your . . . assistance.’
    And with that, Anna heard the most delicious sound she’d ever heard – the sound of the Catchers walking away.
    Julia stood at her kitchen sink, her mind racing. The key could have been mislaid. It was possible.
    But it was also unlikely. Things didn’t tend to get lost in the Sharpe household.
    Frowning slightly, she decided to turn on her computer. She’d been very energy efficient this month, because of the new solar panel installed on her roof, and she felt in need of some company, even if it was virtual.
    As the screen flickered on, a newsreader appeared, talking seriously about the kidnapping of the Energy Minister by a Middle Eastern terrorist group claiming that the recently signed global agreement restricting the use of oil was an underhand plot to destabilise their economy. A personalised message appeared along the bottom of the screen reminding Julia that her Longevity prescription was ready to be picked up and that she had four energy coupons remaining this month; there was a second message at the top of the screen urging her to press the red button on her remote control to complete that day’s brain agility activity. Ignoring the messages, Julia listened to the newscast for a few minutes, sighing and shaking her head. Poorer countries were taking desperate measures to convince the larger nations to allow them more energy. What the terrorists didn’t seem to realise, Julia thought to herself, was that everyone was suffering. Hadn’t China and the USA banned all air conditioning, forcing mass migration into cooler states? Hadn’t South American countries been forced to halt their economic progression in order to protect the rainforests?
    She remembered a time, when she was young, when energy was still plentiful and people thought that recycling was enough. Before islands started to be submerged by the sea, before the Gulf Stream changed Europe into the cold, grey place it was now, with short summers and long, freezing winters. Before politicians were driven to action because infinite life meant that they, not some future generation, would suffer if the world’s climate wasn’t protected.
    But not all countries believed that they were being treated equally by the hastily convened world summit. And why should they? It wasn’t exactly a secret that the richer countries were cheating. That banned energy sources were being used secretly, to provide electricity for essential services. That renewable energy was being imposed on poorer countries as the only available source, whilst corrupt countries traded secretly in oil, in coal. Britain itself had poured money and resources into the race to create a new, problem-free energy source that they could sell to other countries at a huge profit, re-establishing state-funded research departments that had been abandoned a century before along with the universities they’d been attached to, because there weren’t any students any more.
    But energy was not something that Julia could do much about; that was her husband Anthony’s domain. Right now she had a rather more pressing problem to consider. There was nothing on the news about the Surplus escape, but that wasn’t surprising – the news would only be reported once the Surpluses had been caught. No point upsetting people unnecessarily, Anthony would say.
    She drummed her fingers on the kitchen counter, trying to decide what to do, trying to work out why she hadn’t let the Catchers break down the door to the summer house. Had it been to protect Anthony’s furniture? Or had it been something else? Had it been the mention of the name Anna?
    As