The Legacy

levels checked, I think.’
    The doctor nodded, turned to his screen.
    ‘Let’s just have a look at your identicard reader, shall we?’ He looked at her file and keyed in her code. Then he frowned.
    ‘You’ve been tired?’
    Roberta nodded. ‘A little. But then I have been burning the candle at both ends, so to speak.’ Another flirtatious smile. He was actually quite attractive, this doctor, she found herself thinking. She might suggest a drink. Later. When they had both finshed work.
    ‘Any other symptoms?’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘While you’re here.’
    Roberta uncrossed and crossed her legs, then stifled a yawn. Maybe she’d forget that drink after all; even conversation was flooring her. ‘No,’ she said, a note of resignation in her voice. ‘Oh, apart from a slight rash. But I think that’s more likely to be my soap powder.’
    ‘I see.’ The doctor was still looking at his screen; eventually, he turned and bestowed another smile on her. ‘Well, I think you need a booster jab and then we’ll up your levels, shall we?’
    ‘Oh, marvellous,’ Roberta smiled, relieved. A booster jab. She’d be herself in no time.
    She rolled up her sleeve and held out her arm and as the doctor pulled out a syringe, she returned to her story. It would be the lift that started it, she decided – began the revolution. It would tire of going up and down all day, carrying people. First it would reject them, push them out. Then it would decide it wanted to travel sideways, diagonally – to go wherever it pleased. It would urge the stairs to follow suit. The stairs would be apprehensive, nervous of what might happen, but eventually would . . . She looked over at the doctor. Everything had suddenly become blurry. Her eyes wanted to close. She felt like the air was heavy around her, forcing her backwards.
    ‘I think something might be wrong,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I feel more sleepy than before. Are you sure you gave me the right medication?’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor said soothingly. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.’
    He picked up the phone and dialled a number. Roberta could feel herself slipping in and out of consciousness and did everything she could to focus on staying awake. Something was wrong and she wanted to know what it was.
    ‘It’s Doctor Brandon from Surgery 561,’ she heard him say, his voice low, irritable almost. He sounded like he was a long way away even though she knew he was only two metres from where she sat. ‘I’ve got another one.’
    Her eyes closed – she couldn’t fight much longer. She was drifting away. It was too strong for her – sleep beckoned.
    ‘Be quick,’ he said as she lost consciousness. ‘I’ve got patients waiting.’

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    Chapter Ten
    Jude picked up the phone. ‘Hotel Sweeney. How’s the weather with you today?’
    ‘Cloudy in the north, but getting warmer all the time,’ came the reply. It was a woman and she sounded tense, but that was nothing new. Since Hillary Wright’s appearance on television a few days before, the phone had been ringing non-stop and all the callers sounded tense. Pip had manned the phone for the first day and night and Jude had listened to him tirelessly trying to explain to people that Hillary had been wrong, that the Underground hadn’t set out to murder huge numbers of people, that they still needed support and help. By morning he had looked exhausted, pale, wiped out. Then came the news that people were beginning to hand children over to the Authorities in fear for their lives. Two small children had been left at the door of the Underground; Pip had managed to find someone to take them in, but a fear hung in the air – a fear that they were losing, that something terrible was going to happen.
    Jude had taken over the phone the next day – it was the least he could do, particularly as Pip had left with the abandoned children to take them to their new home. But two days on, with barely a break, he was beginning to feel like he was fighting a losing battle.
    ‘State your business,’ Jude said, as always.
    ‘I’m number 6492. I’ve just had a brick through my window,’ the voice said breathlessly. ‘A group of people ran past shouting, calling me a murderer. I’m afraid. I’m hiding a . . .’ She lowered her voice even more. ‘I have a child here. I don’t know what to do.’
    She sounded terrified. ‘Are you known to be a sympathiser?’ Jude asked.
    There was a pause. ‘I’m an Opt Out. Of