The Legacy

door. Immediately Jude slid out and rang the bel again. This time the man cal ed out from behind the half-open door, ‘Who’s there?’
    Jude looked around then ran out. Grabbing the man, he pul ed his hands behind his back and pushed him back into the house before shut ing the door again.
    ‘I’ve come for Sheila.’
    The man didn’t say anything, but Jude wasn’t waiting for a reply. He pushed the man down the corridor towards the stairs. ‘I know she’s here,’ he said, taking the stairs two at a time and pul ing the man up with him.
    ‘Wait!’ A woman appeared at the bot om of the stairs, pale but for the al -too-obvious pustules which she’d done her best to disguise with make-up. Her eyes were wide with fear. There was no sign of any of Richard Pincent’s men, no sign of any Catchers or guards. ‘Who are you?’ she cal ed after him. ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘Sheila?’ Jude ignored the woman. He let go of the man and continued up the stairs.
    ‘Jude?’ Sheila emerged from behind a door, her skin as translucent as always.
    She looked at him for a moment, her eyes lighting up, then, feigning insouciance, she raised her eyebrows. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
    The woman was fol owing him up the stairs; he could hear her rasping breath behind him. ‘Go back to bed, darling,’ she said to Sheila, grasping at Jude’s jacket.
    ‘You have to go now,’ she told him. ‘Sheila’s our daughter. She’s come to look after us.’
    Jude looked at Sheila, who was gazing at him triumphantly, like she’d won a game or something.
    ‘These are my parents. My actual parents.’ She beamed at the woman who was trying to loosen Jude’s grip on her. ‘I found them on your computer. They didn’t want to give me up, Jude. They’ve been looking for me for years. And they were so happy to see me.’ She was smiling, her eyes ful of tears, and she reached out to take Jude’s hand. ‘You don’t have to worry about me any more,’ she said.
    ‘But I want to worry about you,’ Jude said miserably. ‘I thought you needed me.’
    ‘I do,’ Sheila whispered. ‘I mean, I did. But you’ve got other things, Jude. And you don’t need me. My parents do. I’m home now. I’ve come home.’
    ‘This isn’t your home,’ Jude said bit erly. ‘The Underground is your home. I’m your home.’
    At the mention of the Underground, he saw the woman’s eyes darken.
    ‘Underground? That group of murdering terrorists?’
    ‘You should go, Jude,’ Sheila said quickly. ‘My parents don’t approve of the Underground.’
    ‘They are not your parents,’ Jude said angrily.
    ‘We are,’ the woman said desperately. ‘I’m Mrs Palmer. I’m Sheila’s mummy.
    We’ve waited so long for her. Haven’t we, Bil y?’
    ‘So long,’ the man cal ed up. ‘For our lit le Sheila.’
    ‘You did?’ Jude asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘So your husband Opted Out?’ he added. ‘I mean, that’s why he’s . . . old?’
    Mrs Palmer nodded. ‘That’s right.’
    ‘But you didn’t. I mean, you’re on Longevity.’
    Mrs Palmer nodded again. ‘A life for a life. Just one life.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Jude said. ‘A life for a life.’ He felt as if he was choking; his chest was constricting and he was finding it hard to breathe. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t lose her. Desperately he looked around for something, anything, that would make her see the truth . . . and then he saw it. A photograph.
    ‘That your husband?’ he asked. Mrs Palmer’s eyes fol owed his; the photograph showed Mr Palmer playing tennis, a big grin on his face.
    ‘A long time ago, yes,’ she said. ‘Now, please let me go. You’re hurting me.’
    ‘Funny that neither of you have red hair,’ Jude said.
    Mrs Palmer cleared her throat. ‘Red hair?’
    ‘Like Sheila. I mean, you’re both dark. Bit unusual to have a red-haired child, isn’t it?’
    He pul ed Mrs Palmer round so that she was looking at him. Her eyes flickered slightly.
    ‘How old is Sheila?’ Jude demanded suddenly. ‘When was she born?’
    ‘Jude, you know when I was born,’ Sheila interrupted. ‘It was –’
    ‘I want your mother to tel me,’ he said, put ing his hand up to stop her.
    Sheila sighed in mock irritation, then looked at Mrs Palmer expectantly. ‘Go on, tel him,’ she said.
    ‘Wel , you’re . . . fourteen,’ the woman said.
    ‘Fourteen? She’s not fourteen.’
    ‘Fifteen, I mean. Yes, she’s fifteen. She was born, now let me see, in