tersely. ‘I have no mother.’
Then he sighed. ‘How are her let ers even finding the Underground? That’s what I don’t get.’
‘One of the inmates . . .’ Anna said tentatively, not wanting to risk angering Peter further with her in-depth knowledge of Mrs Pincent’s previous let ers. ‘An Underground supporter.’
‘What? They just give away the contact mechanism to Richard Pincent’s daughter?’
Peter asked sarcastical y.
‘I don’t know,’ Anna said quietly.
Peter digested this. ‘You want me to write back, don’t you?’ he said eventual y. ‘I don’t know what hold that woman’s got over you, but you want me to write to her and tel her I forgive her. You want that twisted psychopath masquerading as a human being to have some peace before she fal s apart and dies.’ His eyes were boring into Anna’s but she stayed silent. Then he shook his head. ‘Wel , I won’t. I want her to die unhappy, Anna. I want her to die crying out in her misery because of what she’s done.’
Anna stepped backwards. Her eyes were brimming with tears and she didn’t know why. She wasn’t crying for Mrs Pincent. She couldn’t be. Herself then? She didn’t know. She shook herself. It didn’t mat er. Peter was right – Mrs Pincent was evil.
She didn’t have a hold over her. Did she? ‘Fine, I’l go and wake Ben,’ Anna said, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘You do that. And I’m going to check my messages. From people I actual y want to write to,’ Peter mut ered.
As Anna left the room she could hear him switching on the computer and frowned involuntarily. Perhaps Mrs Pincent had some strange draw for her; perhaps she thought of her old House Matron from time to time. But Peter’s own weakness was a far more physical and constant presence in their life and far more time-consuming –it was his computer. The machine was their conduit to the outside world – to Jude, Peter’s half-brother, and the Underground. To Peter, the computer was his connection, his lifeline; to Anna it represented only the uncomfortable knowledge that their rural idyl in the Underground safe house would not last for ever. Peter would hunch over it whenever he got the chance, sending messages, downloading news programmes, searching for information on Longevity drugs, on Pincent Pharma, on al the things he hated. Anna understood, but that didn’t mean she didn’t sometimes entertain thoughts of smashing the computer and cut ing them off completely.
Ben was awake in his makeshift cot when she walked into his room, pul ing himself up to a standing position, a huge smile plastered on his face.
‘Mama Nanna!’ he said excitedly as Anna approached, his name for her a result of many at empts at explaining that Anna was like his mother but real y his sister, and that he could cal her Anna or Mama, or . . . ‘Mama Nanna up now. Nanna up.’
Obediently, Anna lifted him out of the cot; he wrapped his lit le arms around her neck briefly, then wriggled his way on to the floor. Anna guided him down the corridor to the kitchen, then opened the door and ushered him through.
‘Teter,’ Ben said, toddling in the direction of the kitchen, of Peter. ‘Teter play,’ he said, nodding to himself as though deciding that this was a reasonable and sensible expectation. Anna loved that – loved his innocence, his lack of awareness that if anyone saw him they would cal the Catchers. Children did not exist in a world that had become the preserve of the old; there was no place for them, no infrastructure, no welcome. New life only emphasised the futility and endlessness of old life, Anna thought. That was why people were scared of children, she told herself. That was why people betrayed them and cal ed the Authorities. And that was why she kept Ben and Mol y hidden, why she would not leave this house, this land, whose isolation provided them with the freedom and independence they would find nowhere else.
‘Teter!’ Ben’s eyes opened wide
Then he sighed. ‘How are her let ers even finding the Underground? That’s what I don’t get.’
‘One of the inmates . . .’ Anna said tentatively, not wanting to risk angering Peter further with her in-depth knowledge of Mrs Pincent’s previous let ers. ‘An Underground supporter.’
‘What? They just give away the contact mechanism to Richard Pincent’s daughter?’
Peter asked sarcastical y.
‘I don’t know,’ Anna said quietly.
Peter digested this. ‘You want me to write back, don’t you?’ he said eventual y. ‘I don’t know what hold that woman’s got over you, but you want me to write to her and tel her I forgive her. You want that twisted psychopath masquerading as a human being to have some peace before she fal s apart and dies.’ His eyes were boring into Anna’s but she stayed silent. Then he shook his head. ‘Wel , I won’t. I want her to die unhappy, Anna. I want her to die crying out in her misery because of what she’s done.’
Anna stepped backwards. Her eyes were brimming with tears and she didn’t know why. She wasn’t crying for Mrs Pincent. She couldn’t be. Herself then? She didn’t know. She shook herself. It didn’t mat er. Peter was right – Mrs Pincent was evil.
She didn’t have a hold over her. Did she? ‘Fine, I’l go and wake Ben,’ Anna said, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘You do that. And I’m going to check my messages. From people I actual y want to write to,’ Peter mut ered.
As Anna left the room she could hear him switching on the computer and frowned involuntarily. Perhaps Mrs Pincent had some strange draw for her; perhaps she thought of her old House Matron from time to time. But Peter’s own weakness was a far more physical and constant presence in their life and far more time-consuming –it was his computer. The machine was their conduit to the outside world – to Jude, Peter’s half-brother, and the Underground. To Peter, the computer was his connection, his lifeline; to Anna it represented only the uncomfortable knowledge that their rural idyl in the Underground safe house would not last for ever. Peter would hunch over it whenever he got the chance, sending messages, downloading news programmes, searching for information on Longevity drugs, on Pincent Pharma, on al the things he hated. Anna understood, but that didn’t mean she didn’t sometimes entertain thoughts of smashing the computer and cut ing them off completely.
Ben was awake in his makeshift cot when she walked into his room, pul ing himself up to a standing position, a huge smile plastered on his face.
‘Mama Nanna!’ he said excitedly as Anna approached, his name for her a result of many at empts at explaining that Anna was like his mother but real y his sister, and that he could cal her Anna or Mama, or . . . ‘Mama Nanna up now. Nanna up.’
Obediently, Anna lifted him out of the cot; he wrapped his lit le arms around her neck briefly, then wriggled his way on to the floor. Anna guided him down the corridor to the kitchen, then opened the door and ushered him through.
‘Teter,’ Ben said, toddling in the direction of the kitchen, of Peter. ‘Teter play,’ he said, nodding to himself as though deciding that this was a reasonable and sensible expectation. Anna loved that – loved his innocence, his lack of awareness that if anyone saw him they would cal the Catchers. Children did not exist in a world that had become the preserve of the old; there was no place for them, no infrastructure, no welcome. New life only emphasised the futility and endlessness of old life, Anna thought. That was why people were scared of children, she told herself. That was why people betrayed them and cal ed the Authorities. And that was why she kept Ben and Mol y hidden, why she would not leave this house, this land, whose isolation provided them with the freedom and independence they would find nowhere else.
‘Teter!’ Ben’s eyes opened wide
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