The Declaration

good – for everyone’s good. Even if the escape had proved her right.
    She continued reading, noting down that a neighbour had helped them by supplying floor plans to Grange Hall. Well, that neighbour would regret it. They couldn’t be too hard to track down, and when they were, they’d see what a prison cell looked like from the inside, not just from a map.
    Then her lip curled up in anger as she read Peter’s amazing .
    ‘Peter is a Surplus,’ she muttered. ‘A dirty, disgusting Surplus. He’s . . .’
    And then she frowned. Peter was adopted – she hadn’t known that. It was odd, really. Who would want to adopt a Surplus? But that wasn’t the bit in the journal that really drew her eye. It was the ring. The ring that he was supposedly found with as a baby. A gold ring called a signet ring . . .
    Margaret’s eyes widened briefly, then she shook herself. It was impossible.
    But it was here, written in black and white: he was found with a ring. With the letters ‘AF’ on the inside. With a flower engraved on the top of it .
    Slowly, she put the journal down, and turned to her computer, the only computer in the whole of Grange Hall, turning it on and waiting for it to whirr into life. She went through the laborious password process, a rigmarole that was imposed on any Authority-owned system, and finally plugged Peter’s name into the Surplus network. But to her annoyance, a small red flag appeared by his name. Access Denied.
    Mrs Pincent frowned. Omnipotent in Grange Hall, controller of everything from the Surpluses’ rations and treatment to their training and punishments, she resented any sign that her power did not extend outside its walls; any sign that the Authorities did not hold her in the esteem with which she held herself.
    Irritably, she turned off the computer and picked up the phone.
    ‘Central Administration,’ she heard a woman say. ‘Please state your business.’
    ‘It’s Margaret Pincent here from Grange Hall,’ she said briskly. ‘I need the file of Surplus Peter. The one who escaped.’
    There was a pause as the woman on the other end of the line pressed some keys on her computer.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘That file is classified. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
    Mrs Pincent frowned in anger.
    ‘No, there isn’t,’ she snapped. ‘And I don’t care if it’s classified – I need it. Do you realise who you are speaking to? This is Margaret Pincent. I am the House Matron of Grange Hall, and I want to know where he came from. I want to —’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said again, not sounding sorry in the least. ‘That file is classified, and you don’t have access to it. If you would like special circumstances taken into account, we have an appeals procedure, which takes fourteen working days from receipt of form 4331b. Would you like me to send you a copy?’
    Mrs Pincent pursed her lips. ‘No, no, that’s quite all right, thank you.’
    Margaret put the phone receiver down. Would no one tell her anything? She needed to know where that Surplus scum came from. Needed to know how he came across a gold signet ring. If he was a thief as well as a Surplus, then she would kill him herself. She would torture him until he cried out for death, and she would enjoy every minute of it.
    Then an idea came to her. Not a pleasant one, but one she hoped might work. Slowly she lifted the telephone receiver again and dialled a number from memory.
    ‘Stephen, it’s me,’ she said, forcing herself to keep her voice steady and even. ‘Yes, thank you, I’m well. I trust you are too. Stephen, I have some important information for you . . . No, I can’t tell you over the phone. Can you come to Grange Hall right away? Good. That’s very good. Thank you, Stephen . . .’
    ‘That’s all they’ve got – Bloomsbury? Do they know how big Bloomsbury is?’
    Frank shrugged. ‘That’s all I’ve got here. Check every house, it says.’
    ‘And these are the geezers who think they know it all? I thought they were called Intelligence. Doesn’t sound like they’re too intelligent to me.’
    Frank sighed. ‘Look, let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ he said, rolling his eyes at his colleague, Bill. ‘When you’ve been a Catcher as long as I have, you stop worrying about the Intelligence, as you put it. Soon as we start showing some of the neighbours we’re serious, we’ll soon flush ’em out. You got the tools?’
    Bill raised his eyebrows.