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doorway, his expression unreadable, but Jude knew that he would disapprove of such an outburst. Pip, who had set up the Underground hundreds of years ago and had steered it ever since, was a man of few words and those he uttered were well thought out, ordered, carefully chosen. He favoured caution over passion, reason over gut feeling. He and Jude could not have been more different from each other.
    ‘Pip, you’ve got to hear this. I’ve just come from the processing plant. The disused one up near Euston…’
    ‘Yes, Jude. I’ve seen the footage you uploaded. Congratulations on another success.’ He spoke softly. Pip, the enigmatic, unofficial leader of the Underground movement – the rebel group set up to fight Longevity, to fight the Declaration, to fight Pincent Pharma and everything that it stood for – rarely raised his voice; it meant that he never sounded enthusiastic, never sounded proud or sufficiently surprised by anything. It was the most frustrating voice Jude had ever come across.
    ‘Not that,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Something else. Something…’ His face screwed up inadvertently at what he was about to say. ‘I just saw someone die. It was hideous.’ He regretted his use of language immediately – it felt clumsy, dismissive. But he didn’t know what else to say, how else to describe what he’d seen. He’d long got over his terror, his disgust; on the way back to the Underground he’d shaken himself down, told himself not to be so pathetic. But now, rather than coming across as brave, he felt slightly foolish. After all, he’d seen people die before – Underground soldiers, killed by Pincent Pharma’s henchmen. It was just that this was different. The woman seemed… ill. It was a word from history, a concept that had seemed abstract somehow. Until now, that is. Now it felt very real and very horrible. He saw Pip raise an eyebrow and he reddened slightly. ‘It was a woman. She was gasping, like really gasping for breath, and she wanted some water so I gave her some, and then she just…’ He felt his legs weakening beneath him as the impact of the sight hit him once more. He could feel Pip watching him; he wanted to impress him, wanted his admiration. But instead he could see sympathy, worry. His shoulders fell despondently. ‘She shrivelled up,’ he said, disappointed with himself. ‘She died, right there.’
    Sheila appeared next to him, wide-eyed, and pulled out a chair for him; he felt the usual flutter of longing that filled his chest every time he saw her and sat down.
    ‘She died? So she was an Opt Out?’ Sheila asked. Opt Outs were the people who opted out of the Declaration, who chose to forgo Longevity drugs in order to have children. They were few and far between and regarded with suspicion by Legals – who would want to get old and be open to disease when Longevity tablets could protect you? Who would want to have a child when the world was now almost entirely childless?
    ‘She was alone?’ Pip cut in before Jude could answer; he was looking at him intently now.
    Jude nodded.
    ‘And no one saw you?’ Pip continued.
    ‘No. I mean, I didn’t see anyone. I was careful – coming back here, I mean.’
    ‘Good. Sheila, would you be so kind as to make Jude a cup of tea? And then, Jude, I would like you to tell me exactly what happened. Every detail, everything you can remember. Can you do that?’
    Jude nodded.
    ‘Tea?’ Sheila asked, her face screwing up indignantly. ‘But there’s no tea left. We don’t get more until this afternoon and –’
    ‘And I was hoping that you might be resourceful and find some,’ Pip said, his eyes twinkling slightly.
    Sheila’s eyes narrowed and Jude felt his protective urges kick in as he realised that Pip had discovered her little collection of tea bags, of biscuits, of anything else she’d been able to secrete. She couldn’t help herself – Jude knew that, and didn’t blame her for it. She’d grown up with nothing to call