The Declaration

her it was Wasteful. That Surpluses needed energy to be Useful.’
    Mrs Larson raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this true, Sheila? Did you waste your bread?’
    Sheila felt herself flushing. ‘Yes,’ she said, hating Charlie with all her might and hating Anna even more for leaving her. ‘Yes, I left my bread.’
    She thrust her left hand in her overall pocket and felt the silk against it, comforting her, reminding her that she was better than this place, better than Surplus.
    ‘Even though it’s Wasteful?’ Mrs Larson continued.
    Sheila lowered her head. ‘I wasn’t hungry,’ she said quietly.
    ‘Very well,’ Mrs Larson said, with a sigh. ‘If you’re not hungry, you can go without supper tonight too. Do you understand?’
    Sheila nodded miserably, and she saw Charlie smirk. She shot him a look of hatred and turned to leave.
    ‘Just one minute,’ Mrs Larson said, as she reached for the door. ‘What’s that in your pocket, Sheila?’
    Sheila felt the prickle of fear on her forehead.
    ‘Nothing,’ she said, taking out her hand and showing Mrs Larson. ‘There’s nothing in there.’
    Charlie turned to stare at her. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said. ‘It’s bulging.’
    ‘No,’ Sheila said desperately, ‘it isn’t.’
    Mrs Larson frowned and came closer. Then she lifted Sheila’s hand and thrust her own inside the pocket, gasping when she drew out the silk knickers.
    ‘Oh, Sheila,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Oh, Sheila, you will be beaten for this. Oh, dear me.’
    Mrs Larson turned to Charlie.
    ‘Charlie, get House Matron, please. Right this minute.’
    Charlie looked at Sheila curiously for a second, then left silently.
    ‘You stole these?’ Mrs Larson continued, looking at Sheila with a mixture of outrage and pity. ‘You actually stole these?’
    Sheila bit her lip. Her heart was pounding and everything had taken on a slightly surreal sheen, as fear flooded through her veins.
    Before she could reply, Charlie re-emerged. ‘House Matron said you should bring Sheila to her office,’ he said breathlessly, ‘right away.’
    Mrs Larson nodded curtly and grabbed Sheila by the arm.
    ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling her roughly. ‘Let’s see what she has to say, shall we?’
    Sheila felt the familiar feeling of nausea wash over her. Mrs Pincent’s office represented Sheila’s private hell, a room full of pain and despair. It was in Mrs Pincent’s office that she had begged to be returned home all those years ago, that she had screamed for her mother, that she had cried desperate tears of remorse for whatever she had done that had resulted in her punishment.
    And it was in Mrs Pincent’s office that she had learnt, slowly but surely, that there was no way out. That this was not a punishment, but a life sentence.
    Mrs Pincent closed the door and walked back to her desk.
    ‘You know,’ she said, ‘in olden times, they would cut off a person’s hand for stealing. A Legal person’s hand too. What do you think they would consider a suitable punishment for a thieving Surplus?’
    Sheila felt her lower lip begin to quiver, and she steeled herself.
    ‘Your parents were so relieved, you know, when the Catchers finally found you,’ Mrs Pincent continued. ‘It was their idea, of course. They’d realised just what an evil, horrible child you were. Realised that no good could come from bringing up a Surplus to think it deserved a place in this world.’
    ‘No,’ Sheila cried wretchedly. ‘My parents loved me. They said I wasn’t a Surplus. They didn’t sign the Declaration. They —’
    Mrs Pincent laughed. ‘They lied, Sheila, and that’s the end of it. They brought you into this world illegally, and you have proved yourself to be the lowlife that all Surpluses are. Stealing. It’s a Sin, Sheila. You do understand that, don’t you?’
    Sheila looked down at the floor, and clenched her fists as anger and resentment swelled through her.
    It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair, she thought to herself desperately.
    Then, suddenly, she thought of something. Slowly, she allowed herself to look up at Mrs Pincent, who was staring at her beadily.
    ‘Is stealing as much of a Sin as running away?’ Sheila asked, her voice quiet.
    Mrs Pincent’s eyes narrowed. ‘No one has run away, Sheila. No one runs away from Grange Hall. It’s impossible. You know that!’
    Sheila looked at Mrs Pincent blankly.
    ‘Keeping a diary,’ she continued. ‘That’s a Sin too, isn’t it? For a Surplus, I