The Legacy

the time to talk with us today.’
    ‘It’s always a pleasure, Michael, Sophie,’ Hillary said, looking from one to the other.
    ‘Now, in association with Magic Mix, it’s time for our cooks, Eleanor and Gary, to rustle up a feast in ten minutes . . .’
    Julia took a deep breath. She felt as though she’d been on a roller coaster, taken to the brink of panic before being brought safely back to ground again. One batch. What if they had done more? What if there were more attacks? Her life, her world, had suddenly revealed vulnerabilities that she had never seen before, never even considered.
    But she was safe. The Authorities would catch whoever was responsible. They wouldn’t let it happen again.
    Downing the rest of her drink Julia closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again and started to watch the cookery slot.

.
    Chapter Nine
    Roberta Weitzman leant against the wall briefly to catch her breath. She’d been feeling out of sorts for days now and had finally made an appointment to see the doctor to get her Longevity levels checked. It was an irritation – she was busy, always busy, but her fatigue was getting in the way of work; only that persuaded her to make an appointment. That and the reddish spots that had appeared on her stomach. A reaction to something, she had no doubt. Nothing serious. Not . . . She shook herself. She wasn’t ill. She hadn’t been one of the unlucky ones. And she wasn’t the sort to get hysterical either. She just felt a bit tired, that’s all.
    The doctor’s surgery was on the fifth floor of an office block in Maida Vale. She’d lived in the area for over thirty years and, like most people, had visited the surgery only a few times – for Longevity level checks, for a contraceptive implant, and when she was younger, for a broken bone which had required a plaster cast. Even now the visit felt like a waste of time. Some people talked about eternal life in such strange terms, as though they had trouble filling the hours, the days that stretched ahead, but Roberta couldn’t understand them at all. She had so many things to do – books to write, paintings to do, sonatas to learn on her new piano. Her mother had been an Opt Out – a concept that terrified Roberta. No one else’s mother had died; no one else had been forced to watch their beloved parent disintegrate gradually, losing both mind and body until there was nothing left. When her mother had died, all her ideas had died with her – all that potential, all the thoughts that hadn’t yet been written down, argued for, worked through. And however much she’d protested to the contrary, she’d feared her death – Roberta had seen it in her eyes. ‘I’m a burden on you,’ she’d say sadly, and Roberta wouldn’t know what to say because it was true – she was a burden of her own making. No one wanted to look after a rotting old lady, not even her own daughter.
    Roberta was relieved to find the lift working and pressed the button, heaving herself in when the doors opened and pressing ‘5’. She waited as it trundled slowly upwards before stopping with a jolt and wheezing as the doors opened again, as though it were all just too much effort. She knew how the lift felt and found herself writing a story in her head about a building where the lift, the stairs, the rooms themselves had feelings, that they grew tired of ferrying and containing the humans who used them, decided to rebel and do things their way. Smiling to herself, she gave her name to the receptionist and sat down to wait. In front of her was a television screen with serious-looking people discussing something that they obviously considered of the utmost importance. Idly Roberta glanced at it. Along the bottom the headlines scrolled past: ‘Missing confirmed as part of terrorist attack to sabotage Longevity. Crackdown to arrest Underground agents . . .’
    She frowned. Roberta rarely listened to the news, but even she found herself wanting to know more. She had heard about the Missing, had dismissed it as rumour-mongering. But had there really been a terrorist attack? The doctor poked his head out of his door and called her name and she got up reluctantly. The fatigue hit her by surprise, forcing her down again before she could gather herself and, shaking her head in embarrassment, walk into the doctor’s office.
    ‘Ms Weitzman. And how are you today?’
    Roberta smiled flirtatiously; it was instinct to do so. ‘Oh, I’m OK. Just need my