The Declaration

left him outside a house known to have Underground sympathisers living in it. Faked a burial. Margaret, I couldn’t kill the boy . . .’
    He was sobbing now, his large body juddering as he wept, his eyes seeking hers for what – forgiveness? Sympathy? He would get none from her.
    ‘With the ring?’ Somehow she managed to keep her voice steady, her mind too. She had to, she told herself. For her son. For everything she’d promised him and failed to deliver.
    Stephen looked at her, then continued to weep.
    ‘Did you leave the ring with him?’ she asked again. She had to know for sure. ‘Did you or not?’
    ‘Yes.’ His voice was pathetic. ‘Yes, I did.’
    ‘And now? Where is it now?’
    ‘It was sent to your father for safe keeping when the boy was apprehended.’
    ‘My father? He knew? You both knew?’ Margaret’s head was throbbing and her body almost convulsing with the shock, the pain, but her mind was clear. Clearer than it had been for many years.
    ‘You turned my child into a Surplus,’ she said quietly, her eyes full of hatred as they rested on her ex-husband. ‘Then you took him away, and you gave him to criminals to raise. My son . . .’
    ‘I didn’t think —’
    ‘Quiet!’ Mrs Pincent screamed. ‘You do not talk to me unless I ask you to. You don’t deserve to talk to me. You . . .’
    She started to sob quietly, but immediately stiffened again. Stephen was sly and strong, and if he saw her weaken, he would take full advantage, she knew that. The minute the gun was not trained at his head, this would be over.
    ‘You took away my hope,’ she said. ‘Everything I ever wanted was wrapped up in that boy, our son. For the past fifteen years I have not lived, I have been a ghost. For the past fifteen years I have begged the cold ground to open up and take me, and even that is denied me. I have lived a half life, and it is all because of you. And now I discover that my son is alive. A Surplus. A Surplus who was brought to Grange Hall and who I nearly had put down. Stephen, I nearly killed my own child . . .’
    She felt her stomach clench again and it was everything she could do to stop herself from collapsing on the ground and moaning. But she knew she had to stay strong. Knew she wouldn’t give up now or all would be lost.
    ‘What is it that the Declaration says?’ she asked, blinking away the tears that were in her eyes, the tears which had not come for fifteen years, and which now threatened to pour out of her like an avalanche.
    Stephen, who was sweating profusely now, shook his head.
    ‘The Declaration?’ he asked stupidly. ‘I, um, well, you know . . .’
    ‘A life for a life. Isn’t that right?’
    Stephen frowned. ‘To Opt Out, you mean. Yes, that’s how it’s phrased, I think.’
    ‘Not Opting Out,’ Mrs Pincent said, her eyes now flashing. ‘A life for a life. A Surplus will no longer be a Surplus if one or other of its parents dies. Is that not what it says?’
    Stephen nodded, and his face went white as Margaret turned the gun on herself.
    ‘You’re not going to kill yourself?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Margaret, wait. Not here. Not . . .’
    Then his face went even whiter as she trained the gun back on him.
    ‘It never happens, of course,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘A life for a life, I mean. Who would have a child and willingly not be there to look after it? But our child doesn’t need looking after , does he, Stephen? Our child has rather proved himself capable of looking after himself, wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘Margaret, please, put the gun down,’ Stephen begged. He was shaking violently, his mouth open, his eyes filled with fear.
    ‘I would kill myself in a minute to save my son,’ she continued. ‘A minute . My life has been over for years – it would be a release to die. But then I’d never know he was safe, would I? I can’t trust you, you see, Stephen. Can’t trust you not to bury the paperwork, cover the whole thing up. Can’t trust you not to betray our child for a second time.’
    She walked around the desk.
    ‘Margaret, no, no, you can’t. Margaret, you’ll go to prison. You can’t just . . . Margaret, please. Please, no . . .’
    ‘You can give the boy in death what you weren’t prepared to give him in life,’ Mrs Pincent whispered. ‘And prison doesn’t scare me. I’m in prison now.’
    And right then, she pulled the trigger, watching as the bullet unloaded into her ex-husband’s head, forcing him backwards, his