The Resistance

back to her. He was screaming now, his hands drawn into tiny fists, tears cascading down his red, swollen cheeks and it was all Anna could do not to join him.
    The world came into focus slowly. White ceiling. White pillow. Red blanket. Greyish sheets. Surplus Sheila lay silently, looking around her cautiously as she gradually remembered where she was. Not in Grange Hall – that much she knew. But not a house, either. It was an interim place, she’d decided, for her medical. Sheila knew better than to ask questions, though; she’d learnt in her years at Grange Hall all about keeping her eyes cast downwards, asking no questions, obeying orders, even if she’d fought against it. This was probably just another test, she told herself, just to check that she was fit and ready to be a housekeeper. If she passed, she would soon be out in the real world, in a real house. And once she was in a house, she’d go about finding her parents.
    Allowing a little smile on to her face, Sheila looked around. Her brain felt fuzzy, her limbs heavy on the thin mattress beneath her. She vaguely remembered arriving here, remembered being driven up towards a large, white building. She’d been scared when she got out of the white van, had asked where she was, but they hadn’t told her, and when a man had dragged her towards a door, she’d started to shout and someone else had stuck something sharp in her leg. She couldn’t remember anything after that. And now she was here in another dormitory, just like Grange Hall but white, not grey, and there were no bells, no chores, no Training. She’d been here a few days, she thought. Maybe longer – she kept falling asleep and it was hard to keep track.
    There were others in the room, others like her, on beds, all girls, all asleep or feigning sleep. She caught a girl’s eye and they both looked away quickly. One of the girls had been caught trying to start a conversation a day or so before and had been punished for it with a beating; Sheila had thought it served her right for being Stupid; hoped that they would notice that she wasn’t breaking any rules, that she should pass the test more quickly than the other girls.
    The tests weren’t very nice. Sheila had decided that she didn’t like medicals very much at all. Every day she was given an injection; every day they took blood from her; every day her legs were hoisted into stirrups and metal instruments prodded inside her painfully as she clamped her mouth shut and did her best not to cry out in pain. But apart from that, she was left almost entirely alone. There was a small, cramped bathroom, which the girls were allowed to visit, one at a time. Three times a day a tray of food was placed in front of her. All the girls were wearing the same gowns – long at the front, open at the back, which meant they had to hold the two sides together firmly whenever they made their way to the bathroom. And every so often, one of the girls would be replaced with a new face; they’d passed their tests, Sheila thought enviously. They’d been allowed out, to become housekeepers. She hoped that she’d be next. She couldn’t wait.
    Jude flicked from camera to camera, searching for the girl, for Peter. Instead, his screen was filled with shots of laboratories, production lines, the cafeteria, long sweeping corridors, the reception hall. At the sight of this screen, Jude paused – a line of guards were now positioned outside the glass doors, armed and ready for action; a further three were positioned inside. Jude recognised one of them as the guard who had been assigned to him.
    A man was being searched by the guards; moments later, he emerged through the doors and headed towards the reception desk. Jude watched silently. The man was holding up an identi-card; Judge zoomed in and saw the words ‘Manchester Evening News’ written on it and the name ‘WILLIAM ANDERSON’. The guard took it and scrutinised it, then seemed to be demanding something else; the man in the suit shrugged, smiling, then took out a piece of paper and handed it to him. The guard appeared satisfied; he was soon standing up and showing the man into a side room off the lobby. It was only as they passed the camera outside the door that Jude saw the man’s face properly for the first time, saw his eyes. Jude felt a trickle of sweat wend its way down his neck. The man wasn’t a journalist. He wasn’t from Manchester. And he wasn’t called William Anderson. Shaking slightly, he