The Resistance

his chair, placing his chin in his hands.
    ‘And?’ She was looking back at him now. ‘Peter, you know that our discussions are completely confidential. What is said in this room stays in this room, I can assure you.’
    Peter looked at her for a few seconds. He was almost impressed that she could tell such a blatant lie with such warmth in her voice. Maybe he’d underestimated her. ‘I’ve begun to think seriously about my grandfather’s offer,’ he said in a low, soft voice.
    Surprise flickered across her face just briefly, just enough for him to see.
    ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘I thought you said that you would never have anything to do with him? That anyone who was involved in Longevity production was no relation of yours?’
    Her eyes were twinkling slightly; she was playing with him. It was fair enough – he had said that. Many times. He’d meant it too.
    ‘I know.’ He dropped his eyes down and allowed his left hand to move over his right, let his fingers trace the flower engraved on his ring, the flower which he believed had drawn him to Anna, had fixed his destiny. It mustn’t look as though he was taking this decision lightly. He had to make her think he was conflicted.
    ‘I’m only thinking about it. I just . . .’ Peter raised his eyes to meet hers slowly, and didn’t look away. ‘I just want more. There has to be more, you know? I mean, Anna, she reads books, she writes, she looks after Ben. Me – I’ve got nothing. Maybe if I worked for my grandfather, maybe if I made some money, maybe . . .’
    ‘Maybe you’d find some meaning?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Peter stood up and walked towards the window. It was covered by a grey, institutional blind that reminded him of Grange Hall. He pushed it aside and looked out at the streets below, which were equally grey. He couldn’t see it, but he knew that somewhere in the distance the outline of Pincent Pharma would be dominating the skyline. ‘Anyway,’ he said, not turning around, ‘I figure he owes me.’
    ‘He owes you?’
    Peter nodded and returned to his chair. ‘He makes Longevity drugs, right?’ he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. ‘Well, Longevity drugs led to me being a Surplus. They’re the reason I’ve spent most of my life being hidden and passed around. Which makes my grandfather the reason I had no childhood to speak of. He owes me.’
    ‘You still seem angry, Peter.’ His counsellor’s voice was soft, controlled; she was doing her best to reassure him, but it had the opposite effect. He wondered if she spoke like that at home, off duty, wondered what she sounded like when she was angry or frustrated.
    ‘I was angry,’ he said, making his voice catch slightly – a brilliant touch that he would tell Anna about later. ‘Really angry. But now . . . Now I’m not. Now . . .’
    ‘Now you’re wondering what to do with the rest of your life?’
    Peter shrugged. ‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I’ve got many other options. I go for jobs and people look at me like I’m a freak. And I am a freak to them – I’m about a hundred years younger than most of them. At Pincent Pharma I could earn good money. My grandfather said the door was always open. So I thought I’d see if he meant it.’
    ‘I’m sure he did,’ his counsellor said. She looked relieved, like she thought she’d ‘broken through’. He’d heard her once on the phone before an appointment when she was unaware that he was just outside the door. She’d told someone that she had yet to break through to him, that she was going to try a different tack. He’d been pleased – had seen it as a badge of honour that he was impenetrable, that he was difficult. ‘I think it’s a good idea, actually,’ she continued, now making some notes. ‘So how were you planning to tell him?’
    The corners of Peter’s mouth edged upwards involuntarily; immediately, he suppressed his smile. ‘I already have,’ he said quietly. ‘I wrote him a letter. He left a message yesterday. Said I should start on Monday.’
    His counsellor looked up at him with a start, then turned an impassive smile on him. ‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Well, let’s see how it goes, shall we?’
    Half an hour later, Peter left the Authorities building on Cheapside, and turned left down towards Holborn. The streets were fairly empty – which Peter considered a plus. In the well-ordered pedestrian zone there was only a trickle of shoppers and one or two people walking