The Resistance

bar that allowed its customers to bypass its identi-card scanner and bought a drink – a vodka and orange juice – then another one. The bar was full – evidently, Peter wasn’t the only person who had had his fill of life that day. Old-looking men and women sat hunched over tables, nursing drinks, muttering to each other, to themselves.
    The barman looked at him curiously, but didn’t say anything. He simply took Peter’s money and gave him his drink. Peter downed it straight away and ordered another.
    ‘Drinking a bit quickly, aren’t you?’
    Peter turned to see that a man had joined him at the bar. His face was red, bloated; his eyes bulged out of their sockets as though straining to be free.
    ‘What’s it to you?’ Peter emptied the glass into his mouth and ordered another. Yet another adult telling him what to do. Yet another adult thinking he knew better, thinking he knew it all.
    ‘Nothing, I s’pose. What you drinking anyway?’
    Peter looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Vodka,’ he said.
    The man peered at him. ‘How old are you?’
    Peter took a gulp of his drink, ignoring the man, who was getting on his nerves. He wanted to be left alone to think, to brood, to tame the anger welling up inside him, to turn it into something manageable. But instead of allowing him to drink in peace, the man repeated his question, forcing Peter to turn back to him. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked tightly.
    The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Nah. Don’t suppose it does.’
    He appeared to lose interest in Peter then; Peter took another gulp of his drink, then stared down into it. In the reflection in the glass he could see his face, distorted, twisted, like a strange freak of nature, like an idiot. Had he been an idiot? Did the Underground know about the sterilisation programme? No, they couldn’t. They just couldn’t. Pip wouldn’t have been so keen for Peter to Opt Out if he knew there was no point. If he couldn’t have children anyway.
    ‘Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’
    Reluctantly, Peter turned back to the man still standing next to him. ‘I’m sorry?’ His tone wasn’t so irritable this time. The alcohol was warming his stomach, making his head fuzzy.
    ‘Haven’t seen you before,’ the man repeated.
    ‘No,’ Peter said vaguely. ‘No, you haven’t.’
    His grandfather had said that the Underground wanted him to throw his life away for their cause. Was he right? Why hadn’t Pip Opted Out? Why was it one rule for him and another for his followers?
    ‘I thought as much,’ the man said, nodding seriously. ‘I don’t remember seeing you before and my memory isn’t too bad. Not usually.’
    ‘Right,’ Peter said. He felt angry with Pip suddenly. He should have known about the Surplus Sterilisation Programme. He should have told him.
    The man grimaced. ‘How old did you say you were?’ he asked.
    ‘I didn’t,’ Peter said. ‘Is it really so important?’
    The man shook his head. ‘Not usually. Not for most folks. You, though, you’re different, aren’t you? You’re that Surplus that was in the papers.’
    Peter sighed. ‘So then you know how old I am,’ he said.
    ‘Hmmm,’ the man said, nodding slowly to himself. ‘So young. So new.’ He put his hand on Peter’s. ‘You wait a few years, then you’ll see,’ he said lugubriously.
    ‘Thanks,’ Peter said tightly. ‘Thanks for the tip.’ He drained his glass, looked at his watch, thought about Anna, thought about leaving. Then he shrugged and ordered another. What did it matter anyway? What did anything matter now?
    The man laughed. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, pretending to doff his cap. ‘You’re welcome, I’m sure.’
    Peter opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Pip wanted him and Anna to Opt Out. To cut their lives short – for what? To make a point? Was that all his life was worth in Pip’s opinion? Angrily, he slammed his glass down on the counter. Pip had betrayed him; the Underground had. And they’d betrayed Anna too. They’d pretended to care, and all the time . . .
    ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ the man next to him said conversationally. ‘Whatever it is you’re vexed about, can’t be that bad.’
    ‘Can’t it?’ Peter swung round and stared at the man. He could feel himself sway, noticed that his words were slurring slightly. ‘And you’d know, would you?’
    The man smiled and shrugged. ‘Nothing matters, you see. What