The Legacy

would turn the situation to his advantage. There was always an opportunity in crisis, however desperate things seemed.
    His phone started to ring and he looked at it with loathing – it would be Hillary Wright, head of the Authorities, haranguing him for more information, for explanations. Dead bodies were not easily hidden in a world where no one died; illness was not easily explained away when Longevity stopped even the tiniest of infections from taking hold. As he’d predicted, the number of deaths was growing – single figures had become double and now there were hundreds of corpses piling up at Pincent Pharma, buried in hastily dug shallow pits. Pincent guards were taking them when they were ill, before anyone could witness the horror, the blackened corpses. Thankfully, living forever had meant that most marriages had broken up – a lifetime’s commitment was now rather too long for most to stomach. With no children any more the vast majority of people lived alone, making it much easier for the Authorities police to take them away in the middle of the night and bring them to Pincent Pharma to die and to be examined.
    Richard ignored the phone. Hillary could wait, he decided. She would have to – he had to think, had to find a way through the maze. So far he had evaded her questions, lied to her when necessary. He would not admit there was a problem until he also had the solution. He needed the formula; that was the quest. But how? It was like a puzzle, a game, only one with terrible consequences if he lost. Could he dig up Albert’s body? Bring him back to life? Torture him into revealing the exact formula?
    Nice idea, he thought wryly.
    But no. There had to be another way.
    He stared again at Albert’s notes. Impenetrable scribblings, little doodles around the page – he’d got his best scientists to work tirelessly in an attempt to interpret them, but to no avail. The formula could not be concealed within their pages; it must be hidden somewhere else. But where? Richard had ransacked Albert’s house, his car, his office – everywhere. He’d examined everything – after his death and then again a few weeks ago when one death had turned into five and he’d realised that something was wrong.
    Sighing, he scrunched up one of the pieces of paper and threw it across the room. But as he did so, his eyes were drawn to something on the page beneath – an image he’d seen somewhere before. A picture of a flower. He’d dismissed it as a doodle, but now . . . He knew he had seen it somewhere else. Where? He didn’t know. He closed his eyes, tried to picture the place he’d seen it, but . . . nothing. Then he opened his eyes again. Underneath the drawing, in tiny letters, was written, over and over again, ‘The circle of life. The circle of life. Must be protected.’
    There was a knock at the door and Derek walked in, silent as always. ‘I wondered if there had been any . . . progress,’ he said.
    Richard looked up and shook his head miserably. ‘The circle of life,’ he said, sighing. ‘All I have is this stupid drawing and his scribblings about the circle of life.’
    Derek looked thoughtful. ‘That’s what he was shouting when I took him away,’ he said.
    ‘The circle of life? But what was he talking about? Did it have anything to do with the formula?’ Richard asked uncertainly.
    Derek didn’t say anything for a moment, then he walked back towards the door. ‘You’ll find it, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘I know you will.’
    Richard sighed heavily. ‘The one person who believes in me,’ he said. ‘I wish I had your confidence. Thank you, Derek.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Derek said smoothly, and left the room.
    Jude looked around cautiously to check that no one was watching him, but he needn’t have worried; as always, Pip was nowhere to be seen and Sheila was lying sprawled over some cushions reading a romantic novel that one of the supporters had donated a few weeks ago.
    Quickly he looked back at his computer and adjusted the sound levels so that no one but him would hear what the cameras were picking up. Pip might not think he was as clever or brave as Peter, but Peter wouldn’t be able to do this, Jude thought to himself, adrenalin coursing through his veins.
    He could feel a light film of sweat cover his body which, bearing in mind the temperature of the Underground, had nothing to do with heat. He was scared. Excited. His neck muscles were tense, his eyes wide, because