The Legacy

dull grey walls of her cell, the vile slush they told her was food? Grange Hall had been grey too but it had been her grey, her vile slush, her domain.
    Others symptoms filled her with fear, with desperate loathing. Worst of all were the nightmares which accompanied her every time her eyes closed. Memories dredged up from years and years ago now haunted her: her mother, white and lifeless, staring at her from her bed; her grandfather, who’d promised to look after her and had killed himself instead; her baby son, snatched away from her before she could hear his first cry. Everyone had abandoned her. Everyone she had ever loved.
    She picked up her notebook. It was easier during the day. During the day she could focus on facts – facts and truths and revelations. Only at night did her demons have free rein to plague her, to make her cry out in pain, to make her anguish so unbearable. Pushing the pages away from her so that she might see a little more clearly, she began to write. Today her breathing had started to deteriorate – her breaths had become rasping, her chest compressed. The day before her bowels had failed her, soiling her bed linen and humiliating her so much she would have taken her own life if she could have done.
    Oh Peter! Oh my son!
    She sighed and pushed the notebook from her; even writing his name was too much, made her wounds too fresh. She would never speak to him, would never see his face again.
    The letter from the girl had arrived just days before. Margaret had still not recovered from the feeling of hope that had seemed to physically lift her body up when the guard had given it to her. Her feet had left the floor, she’d been sure of it. But seconds later, the descent to earth had seemed to crush her organs, her bones, her mind, her soul. He was not coming. He would not acknowledge her.
    Anna’s letter had been kind, but that had made it worse. Margaret despised the girl – for taking her son away, for showing him the happiness that Margaret herself never could, for being with him when she could not. And she despised her because after all this time, after all that Margaret had done, Anna still could not turn from her completely. Unlike Peter, she could not ignore Margaret’s letters, and this only revealed how weak she was. Margaret had always hated the weak; they reminded her of herself. Peter might hate her, but in a strange way she almost drew comfort from the fact. He knew his mind. He was strong. He was a survivor. Worth dying for, worth the suffering . . .
    Leaning against the wall, she heard the familiar sound of heavy footsteps coming down the corridor, then her door opened fractionally.
    ‘Grub’s up,’ a voice said. Margaret peered at the large figure in the doorway. She caught his eye and saw him shrink back.
    ‘Put it down, please. Over there.’
    Even in prison, Margaret did her best to keep command.
    The prison guard shuffled over and put the food on her table, then leapt back behind the doorway again. It was a cheap, rickety table, so different from the large, authoritative desk she had sat behind at Grange Hall. The desk that Surpluses had clung to as she beat any hope, any self-worth out of them. The desk that had contained her gun for so many years – a gun she’d never expected to use. Until Stephen . . .
    The man began to shut the heavy metal door that separated her cell from the corridor outside, then stopped momentarily.
    ‘You always eat in here, alone,’ he said, looking at her suspiciously.
    Margaret let out a small sound of displeasure that this man felt able to address her directly, felt no fear at asking her such a personal question. At Grange Hall no one had asked her anything directly.
    ‘I was just wondering why,’ the man said after a few seconds of silence. ‘I’d have thought you’d want to get out of here, is all. Canteen’s just down there.’
    ‘The canteen,’ Margaret said icily, enunciating each word carefully, ‘holds no attraction for me.’
    She had been alone all her life and she saw no reason to change now.
    The man nodded; he seemed in no hurry to leave.
    ‘What is it?’ Margaret asked sharply. ‘If you have something to say, spit it out.’
    Even now she had no patience for time wasters, for dawdlers, for anyone who did not live their life according to order and rules. It used to be her rules that governed everyone around her and she missed that.
    ‘I just wondered . . .’ The man frowned, looked