The Legacy

‘Are you known to be a sympathiser?’ Jude asked.
    There was a pause. ‘I’m an Opt Out. Of course I’m known to be a sympathiser.
    People treat me with contempt or pity most of the time. But not this, not violence.
    What shal I do? Can you send protection?’
    Jude looked at the database. South-east London. Numbers of potential guards had already dwindled to barely a hundred across the country, and there was no one near her. Al the available guards in London were already deployed; the capital city had the highest density of Opt Outs and Underground supporters, al of whom were now clamouring for help. ‘Are you on your own?’
    ‘Yes,’ the woman said bit erly. ‘No one wants to be associated with an Opt Out these days.’
    ‘OK. Can you lock your doors? Sit tight until they lose interest?’
    ‘You think they’re going to lose interest? Listen.’ The woman held the phone up; Jude could hear distant chanting: ‘Surplus out! Surplus out! Kil the traitors!’
    Suddenly a separate voice could be heard, a man with a hoarse voice. ‘Hand him over, lady. We know he’s in there. Dirty Surplus, stealing our water, contaminating our drugs! Hand him over and you won’t be hurt.’
    Immediately the chant changed to, ‘Hand him over! Hand him over!’
    ‘You see?’ the woman said in a strangled voice. ‘Do you think they’re going to go away?’
    Jude closed his eyes. He was exhausted – the kind of exhaustion that leaves you shaky, that makes your head feel as though it wil explode if you don’t shut your eyes.
    ‘No, they’re not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘OK, sit tight. I’m sending someone over.’
    ‘How quickly can they get here? And won’t they get lynched by the mob?’ the woman asked anxiously.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Jude said, swal owing uncomfortably. ‘Just stay where you are. Keep your son safe.’
    The phone went dead and Jude stood up. Immediately the ringing started again.
    ‘Sheila,’ he cal ed out urgently. ‘Sheila, I need you to take over the phone. I have to go out.’
    Sheila appeared immediately and looked at him searchingly. ‘The phone? Why?
    Where are you going?’
    ‘To get someone. A child,’ Jude said. ‘The mother’s under at ack. There’s no one else.’
    Sheila’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘But you can’t go. You’l be caught. Send someone else.’
    ‘There is no one else,’ Jude said grimly. ‘I’l be fine. I know how to take care of myself.’
    ‘But . . .’ Sheila stared at him helplessly. ‘But we need you here. I need you. I . . .’
    She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t go.’
    ‘I have to go,’ Jude said, grabbing his coat. Then he stopped. ‘You need me?’ he asked. ‘Real y?’
    ‘Real y,’ Sheila whispered. She was looking right at him, her face defiant, scared, beautiful al at once. Without warning Jude grabbed her, pul ed her towards him and kissed her, before let ing her go and running towards the door.
    ‘I need you too,’ he whispered, too late for her to hear him. ‘You have no idea how much.’
    The freezing air outside stung his skin and he pul ed his coat tightly around him as he made his way through the streets. He’d memorised the address, knew he could get there using one of Pip’s tried and tested routes. London was real y two places: the place where most people lived, and the place the Underground inhabited –disused Underground tunnels, lit le-known al eyways that Legals would never walk down, particularly after dark, the cracked, unkempt main roads that years ago had been clogged with cars and which now lay empty but for the odd vehicle driven by someone very rich or very wel connected.
    Jude knew that what he was doing was rash, il -considered; he knew that Pip would never have let him go. But he also knew he had no choice. He’d heard the crowd baying for blood; he couldn’t leave the woman and her child – he couldn’t. So instead he ran, ignoring the pounding in his head, ignoring his muscle spasms as he forced himself onwards. He took out his handheld device and searched for the woman’s address. Soon he had a live CCTV image on his screen which revealed that while the front of her house was surrounded, the back was clear. On he ran.
    She was only twenty minutes away, but twenty minutes was a long time when you were under siege. He ducked through an al eyway and under a disused flyover, then pul ed back against a derelict building. A sign above it revealed its history: St Thomas’ Hospital. Through