The Legacy

uncomfortable.
    ‘Wondered what?’ Margaret stared at him insolently.
    He took a deep breath. ‘What it’s like,’ he said quietly. ‘To die. To know you’re going to die.’
    The question shocked Margaret, silenced her for a minute or two. No one ever mentioned death, not even here in prison. The word was skated over, euphemisms used in its place as though the very word could contaminate.
    ‘It makes me sick with fear,’ she said eventually, shooting a glance at the guard. She was beyond lies, beyond any pretence. ‘Is that what you want to hear? I hate myself, I hate what I have done. And yet I fear the end. I fear nothingness.’
    The man nodded uncomfortably. ‘They say,’ he said, looking down, ‘they say that people are dying. Getting ill.’
    Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘And who are they? Fanatics? No one dies. You know that.’
    She had heard the rumours, of course. As much as she tried to ignore the other prisoners she still brushed up against them on occasion, in the bathroom, on the corridor. But she believed none of it.
    ‘Authorities say Longevity was contaminated by the Underground. Say they made people ill. But no one’s come back yet. Not one of the ill. My next-door neighbour – she’s never come back.’
    Margaret looked at him carefully. The Underground. Terrorists. Evil men. But evil men who had kept her son alive and were now poisoning Legals. Right and wrong had ceased to have meaning, she realised. Everything had shifted. She took a deep breath. ‘Your name,’ she said. ‘I don’t know your name.’
    ‘John,’ the man said.
    ‘Well, John,’ Margaret said, ‘my grandfather used to tell me that the only people who fear death are the ones who haven’t lived.’ She surprised herself with the statement; she’d forgotten it until now.
    ‘And you have? Lived, I mean.’ he asked.
    Margaret laughed darkly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t lived. And that is my torment. That is my pain.’
    She sighed and turned to her food as the door shut with a loud clunk. It was the usual vile slop, enough to keep her going but no more, and she ate it unenthusiastically. She put the bowl on the floor then leant back on her bed, allowing her eyes to close momentarily.
    The rap on the door surprised her – an hour couldn’t have passed, could it? She looked at her food suspiciously, looked around the room as though she might find a clue somewhere. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. Perhaps . . .
    ‘Yes?’ she asked.
    The door opened slowly. It was John again. ‘You’re here already?’ she asked.
    He looked down at the bowl, then back at her. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
    Margaret looked up in shock. ‘A visitor?’ She had not had one visitor in all the time she’d been in prison.
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Yes, yes, I . . . Just a moment. Just one moment, please.’
    It’s him. It’s Peter. He’s come.
    No. Pull yourself together, woman. It’s not him. It will never be him.
    Desperately Margaret ran her hands over her white hair, looked down at her frail body, smoothing down her overall. Then she held out her shaking hands to be chained together and, trembling with anticipation, wobbling on frail legs, followed the guard down the corridor.
    Anna watched in silence as Peter tried to fold a jumper. He made three attempts but each time the sleeves fell away as soon as he picked it up. She didn’t step in to help and eventually he gave up, stuffing it untidily into his suitcase. He looked up and met her eyes.
    ‘A few days,’ he said again, as though it made a difference. ‘One week max. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.’
    Anna stayed mute; she knew her eyes spoke for her, knew that Peter could read her thoughts, that speaking them out loud wouldn’t help.
    ‘You were right about staying here,’ he continued, adding trousers, socks and T-shirts to the heap inside his suitcase. ‘It’s safer, I know that. So me going on my own makes sense. This way I can just find out what’s going on and be back in no time.’
    He looked down again as he spoke and Anna knew why. Guilt was seeping out of his pores. She sat down on the bed. She could stop him if she really wanted to – she knew that. But for how long? How long could she live around those pained eyes, the restlessness, the voice full of reproach? Yet she was angry with him for needing to go, for having any needs that didn’t centre on her, on Ben, on Molly. They should be enough. This should be enough.
    She