The Legacy

boot.
    She turned to Jude with a little smile. ‘If you didn’t look over my shoulder all the time I’d learn far more quickly,’ she said.
    Jude shook his head. ‘That’s my computer you’re on. No one uses my computer without me there.’
    Sheila frowned. ‘You mean you don’t trust me?’
    ‘I mean this computer has too much on it. It’s too important. If you make a mistake, press the wrong button –’
    ‘I won’t,’ Sheila insisted. ‘You always get annoyed that Pip doesn’t trust you, but you’re just as bad.’
    ‘I’m not,’ Jude said, his eyes widening. ‘This is different. This is . . .’
    He trailed off uncertainly.
    ‘See?’ Sheila said triumphantly. ‘You’re just as bad as him.’
    ‘No I’m not,’ Jude said forcefully. ‘Fine.’ He stood up gingerly, looking as though he was fighting a magnetic pull to move away. ‘Fine. I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes. You know not to touch that button? And if you’re unsure about anything, anything at all –’
    ‘I’ll ask you, ’ Sheila promised. She held her breath and waited until Jude was far enough away, until she was sure he wouldn’t be able to see what she was doing. Then, her heart fluttering, she began to navigate through his files, doing exactly what she’d watched him do. Soon everything she’d ever wanted would be hers. She was going to look after herself from now on. She was going to be just fine.

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    Chapter Seven
     
    Anna stared at the piece of paper in front of her then grabbed it, screwed it up into a little ball and threw it in the bin. She looked up at the ceiling, searching for something, but she didn’t know what. It wasn’t inspiration she needed, it was more than that. It was the answer to the question that had been pressing at her for weeks, months: should she write back to her old House Matron? Should she put Mrs Pincent out of her misery? Would she be letting Peter down? Would it be an act of weakness or strength?
    She sighed. Life in Grange Hall used to be so full of certainties: right, wrong; good, bad; useful, waste of space . . . Now nothing was clear. Peter didn’t seem to mind that – he had his own principles, his own guiding beliefs that were, as far as Anna could tell, a mixture of the Underground doctrine and his own gut feeling about things. Anna, though, struggled daily. It wasn’t just being on the Outside either – it was motherhood. Often she felt more driven by fear for her children than by rational thought; she wasn’t sure any more where she stopped and her desire to protect them began. As for Mrs Pincent – she was an ogre, Anna knew that. But she had also thought that her child had been murdered; she had suffered intolerably. Did that not affect her guilt? At the same time, unaware that Peter was her long-lost son, Mrs Pincent would have had him put down like an animal if they hadn’t escaped. Perhaps she deserved nothing but her own misery to keep her company until her inevitable death.
    Then again, to hear from Anna would not give Mrs Pincent any pleasure. Not when she heard the truth from her pen – that Peter would not acknowledge her existence. Anna would simply be telling her the facts. It would stop Mrs Pincent writing, stop her hoping for a response from her son that would never come.
    Surely even a monster deserved that?
    Anna exhaled slowly. Peter had said she could. He’d said, ‘Write to her yourself if you want.’ Had he meant it? She couldn’t ask. To ask would be to revisit, to awaken Peter’s anger again. Every time the Pincent name cropped up his eyes would darken, his neck would tense.
    She would do it, Anna decided suddenly. She would write so that there would be no more letters, no more reminders. It was for Peter that she was doing it, not for Mrs Pincent – not for the woman whose twisted, manipulative regime was the nearest thing to parenting that Anna had known during her incarceration in the Surplus Hall.
    Slowly, she took out another sheet of paper and began to write.
    The wind was battering Pincent Pharma, doing its best to unhinge drainpipes, to uproot the signage surrounding it. Hailstones swept past its windows, forcing people off the street, but at least the hail might melt, might provide a little moisture for the parched land below. It was summer, but the seasons meant little any more and the days were cold, dark and rainless. The landscape was not the same one that Richard Pincent had known as a child, but then again