The Legacy

in her chest. Because he had been her hope too, and now she had none. Now all that lay before her was the emptiness of oblivion.
    Julia held up her identicard and waited for the green light. It took a few seconds – longer than usual – but eventually the small printout appeared, the barriers opened, and she was ready to shop. She enjoyed her trips to the Maxi-Market, enjoyed the rare feeling of plenty. For although her purchases were restricted by her identicard reading, she could still look, touch and smell the wonderful display of foods on offer. Even if they weren’t real. Even if her journey here had been stressful, difficult and unnecessarily so in her opinion.
    The checkpoints were everywhere now and police patrolled the street. A simple journey involved a million questions, body searches, horrible intrusion into one’s personal life. Where are you going? Why are you going there? When will you be back? But she didn’t mind. The world was different now and they needed such checks for their own protection. Not just from the Underground terrorists but from the crowds of deranged, angry people. Fear made people forget themselves, Julia found herself thinking. Fear was a terribly destructive force.
    She looked up at the building and felt her spirits lift a little. She remembered being young and going to the supermarket. People had been free to choose to shop where they liked in those days and no one thought anything of buying fruits from halfway across the world – and while the Maxi-Market wasn’t the same, not really, it still gave her the thrill she got back then – of potential, of wonder, of desires being met.
    Unfortunately her printout didn’t allow for many of her desires, particularly the overwhelming desire she felt for chocolate. But it did give the green light for pasta and even pesto which, if it wasn’t good for her hips, was certainly good for her general mood. Humming to herself, she walked towards the vegetable section – it was all root vegetables at this time of year, large and heavy and begging to be stewed with beef or sausages. But beef was off the menu. Beef hadn’t been on the menu for a long time – not for Julia, not for anyone. She felt sorry for the cows really, but they required too much space to graze, caused too much havoc to the environment; they were not efficient, and efficiency was what it was all about, wasn’t it? Still, she would buy a small portion of lamb instead, which was still available, if expensive. She pressed her identicard to the reader next to the imitation vegetables and waited.
    Sweet potato, five hundred grammes, added to trolley , the voice said. Marrow, three hundred grammes, added to trolley . Two vegetable credits left. Thank you .
    She walked on to the bread section, her favourite. The food on display might not be real but the smells were, and she inhaled deeply as the scent of freshly baked loaves wafted towards her.
    Granary loaf, five hundred grammes, added to trolley. Try the latest butter substitute on aisle fifteen. Thank you .
    ‘You’re only buying one?’
    The woman’s voice startled Julia and she turned round to see a neighbour she’d occasionally come across at drinks parties. Belinda. No, Brenda – that was it. Julia frowned. ‘I only need one,’ she said, thinking to herself what an odd question it was to ask someone. ‘Why?’
    Brenda looked at her contemptuously. ‘You’re not hiding any more Surpluses in your house? Any terrorists trying to kill us all?’
    Julia’s heart seemed to miss a beat and she fought to control herself. ‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ she said, moving away. ‘Now if you don’t mind . . .’
    Brenda moved closer. ‘I do mind. It’s people like you who have created this mess. People are dying and all because of liberals like you. Everyone knows it was you who helped those Surpluses, Legals now. And what did they do to thank us? They poisoned our Longevity. Surpluses aren’t people, Julia. They’re not human. They’re evil. They should be put down at birth like in other countries.’
    Julia could feel her skin getting hot and prickly. It seemed so long ago, that fateful day when Surplus Anna had turned up in her garden room with the boy, hiding from the Catchers. She hadn’t intended to help them escape but they’d been so fragile, so helpless, and they were only children. Of course she understood now that it was she who’d been vulnerable, she who’d been weak, exploited