The Declaration

other women, but I have Longevity and a child. And that is something you will never have .
    And then? And then . . .
    Margaret felt the familiar feeling of bile rising up the back of the throat as she remembered the fateful day, seven months into her pregnancy, when she discovered the horrific truth. The truth that made her scream out, ‘No! No, it can’t be!’ over and over again, unable to take it in, to comprehend it. The truth that had rendered her willing to kill. So willing, in fact, that she’d even bought a revolver for the very purpose, but she had been unable to use it, even on herself, because her husband had put her under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Nursing, he’d called it, but she’d recognised it for what it was. He was afraid of what she might do. And he was right to be afraid.
    The horrible, desperate truth was that he’d had an affair. An affair that had started several months before their wedding and was still going strong a year later. An affair that had resulted in a pregnancy, two months before her own, and then the birth of a healthy baby boy who, arriving before Margaret’s own son, snatched the Legal title for himself, rendering her own child a Surplus. The legality of her marriage did not protect her child, she discovered too late. One child, her husband was allowed, and no more.
    It was too late to terminate the pregnancy. In some regions, no time was considered too late – long needles would be injected into swollen bellies to poison the unborn child, forcing the mother to give birth to her dead baby just hours later – but not here. Not in this civilised corner of the world. No, here, the baby would live long enough to be born and would then be packed off to a Surplus Hall to live a life of servitude.
    But not her son, Margaret swore to herself. She wouldn’t let them do it. As they took him away from her, just minutes after he was born, she cried out for someone to help her. He couldn’t live as a slave. She wouldn’t do that to her own son.
    And finally, after the birth, her husband took pity on her and agreed to help. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps he shared her belief that death would be better than life as a Surplus, but he agreed to take care of the situation. The boy was still his son, he accepted, and he would let him die an honourable death rather than live a life of dishonour, of shame. He even let Margaret say goodbye, to clutch the baby to her chest one last time and feel the warmth of his skin against hers, before he was taken away for ever, leaving her cold, empty and bitter.
    Now, Margaret felt nothing but contempt for Surpluses. Each new Surplus reminded her of what she had lost, of what her son had lost. They reminded her of what she had been forced to sacrifice because of her husband’s mistress, that woman whom she hated to the bottom of her heart. What right did these Surpluses have to one moment’s enjoyment, when her son lay in a grave somewhere? What right did any of their mothers have to bear a child? None, Margaret thought angrily. Surpluses had no right to anything but shame for their Parents’ Sins. For everyone’s Sins. And it was her mission in life to avenge her son’s cruel fate by ensuring that each and every Surplus in Grange Hall endured a life that was not worth living. She would not tolerate any Surplus enjoying anything approaching a normal life when her own poor child had been denied it.
    She thought she’d done such a good job with Anna too. The girl really did feel the shame of her parents’ crimes. Until that Peter had come along.
    Margaret’s eyes narrowed as she thought about him. Evil boy. He would pay for this. They both would.
    Slowly pulling herself back into the present, forcing herself to push all thoughts of her betrayed child from her head, she turned the pages of Anna’s journal, shaking in outrage at the blasphemous thoughts that the Surplus had dared to commit to paper.
    On the Outside I won’t be a Prefect. I won’t be set to be a Valuable Asset either. I don’t know what I’ll be on the Outside. Just an Illegal, I suppose. With a thudding heart Mrs Pincent continued down through the paragraphs, bristling with anger when Anna referred to the injections she’d given Peter, referred to her overheard telephone conversation. She’d have to make sure this journal never got into the wrong hands, she realised. The Authorities wouldn’t understand that she’d only been planning to put him down for his own