The Memory Thieves

by Darren Simpson

  Cyan shivered at the sight of Teal and Ruby, unconscious on metal trolley beds, connected by wires to various consoles. He shifted on his own trolley bed to look closer. They were breathing slowly but steadily. Metallic pads were attached to their temples. Thin wires left the necks of their gowns, and they each wore a plastic clip on one of their fingers. Further wires dangled from the clips, joining the cables that snaked their way to beeping monitors.

  Cyan reached up, felt metal pads on his own temples and instinctively yanked them off. He did the same with the pad taped to his chest and the clip on his finger, and was startled by a loud buzzing from one of the monitors.

  One of the room’s two doors opened and Dr Haven appeared. His polished shoes clopped briskly across the linoleum floor, and he silenced the buzzing with a tap of a console. He studied the various monitors while speaking. “Excellent. You’re awake.”

  Cyan squinted at the back of the doctor’s black, long-tailed coat. Fuzzy memories were returning. Residents and orderlies. The crash and clatter of cutlery.

  “The canteen,” mumbled Cyan. “What…happened?”

  Dr Haven turned and smiled contentedly. “Nothing of concern. A minor inconvenience. How are you feeling?”

  Cyan smacked his parched lips. “Thirsty. Can I have a drink?”

  “All in good time.” The doctor dragged a metal chair across the floor and sat himself in front of Cyan. “I hope you don’t mind me allowing you to wake up before your treatment begins.”

  “Treatment?”

  “I need to ask you some questions. While you’re still able to answer them.” Dr Haven crossed one leg over the other, opened his notebook and took a pen from his coat. “Did you talk to Jonquil much? After the incident at the Serenity, I mean.”

  “Um.” Cyan’s forehead wrinkled while he tried to recollect. “I tried, I guess. By the back of the cove. But it was hard to get much out of her.”

  “M-hm. And what exactly did you get out of her?”

  Cyan opened his mouth to reply, but his breath caught in his throat. He was hit by an image of Jonquil, screaming and trembling by the food counter. And Mr Banter, with a flashing needle…

  He felt his heart throbbing harder. Much of his grogginess evaporated and he became intensely aware of the room’s thin, sterilized air. Bile churned painfully in the pit of his stomach.

  The doctor encouraged him with a waft of his pen. Cyan winced and pushed a palm against his forehead. “Hang on. Where is Jonquil?”

  Dr Haven spoke with his eyes on his pad. “She’s around.”

  Cyan glanced about. “But where?”

  “Near enough. No more than a few…rooms away.” The director put the pen briefly to his lips. “Now tell me, Cyan: what did Jonquil say to you, when she saw fit to speak? Did she try to talk again about her past?”

  Cyan wiped damp hair from his forehead. He looked again at Ruby and Teal, unconscious and wired up on their beds. “Where…are we? Have we left the sanctuary?”

  “No.”

  “Really?” Cyan straightened his glasses, searching the room for familiar signs. “I’ve never seen this place before.”

  “You have, but you don’t remember.”

  “What?”

  The doctor drummed the top of his pen against his pad. “Let’s focus on the matter at hand, Cyan. Now tell me: did Jonquil try again to talk about her history? Did she ever say anything about how she was feeling, physically or mentally?”

  “What’s happening here? Why are Ruby and Teal unconscious?”

  “That’s not what we’re discussing now.”

  “I have a right to know, though, don’t I?”

  Dr Haven tapped his notepad again with his pen, but this time harder. His smile stiffened, just a little. “Actually, you don’t. There are certain rights you signed away when you began your treatment. Not that you’ll remember. But take my word for it: rights can be more damaging to people than they know. So, forget about why we’re here and answer my questions.”

  Cyan straightened up. His cheeks and palms were getting hot. “Let me see Jonquil first. I want to know she’s okay.”

  Dr Haven tutted lightly and released a curt breath through his nostrils. “You can’t see Jonquil. It’ll be for the best when everyone’s forgotten about her.”

  “Forgotten about her?” Cyan stared at the doctor. “Is… Wait a minute. Is that what you meant? When you said you wanted to ask me questions…while I’m still able to answer?” His gaze returned to Ruby and Teal. “Are you wiping our memories of Jonquil?”

  The director blinked slowly, got up from his chair and strolled to the stainless-steel sink. “I’ve already removed the other residents’ memories of the period since Jonquil arrived. The last thing we want is for them to feel unsettled by what happened.” The basin pinged while he gave his hands a thorough wash. “I postponed the treatment of you, Teal and Ruby, so that I could gather some information for my notes on Jonquil; you three seemed closest to her. But you’re proving to be just like the other two before I put them under sedation again: not useful at all. So let’s move things along, shall we?”

  “But…” Cyan couldn’t find words. He watched while Dr Haven dried his hands on a paper towel, crossed the room and opened the steel cabinet.

  When the cabinet door closed, the doctor was holding a large glass syringe.

  Cyan saw transparent fluid in the syringe’s barrel, before his eyes were drawn to its thick, glistening needle. He swivelled from his bed, put bare feet on the cold floor. “Is that what’s going to wipe my memory? Of Jonquil?”

  “It is.” That calm, contented smile had settled again on Dr Haven’s face. “Our little talk today will be removed too, of course.”

  “But what about…” Cyan was edging along his trolley bed. “What’ll happen to Jonquil? Will she be okay?”

  The doctor sighed, though not without amusement. “Most probably not.”

  Cyan froze. A wave of dizziness made him grip the metal bedframe. “What? But…” He swallowed sorely. “What’s wrong with her? Is she ill?”

  “She’s certainly not well.”

  “In what way?”

  The director shrugged gently, took a step forward with his syringe.

  Cyan edged further along the bed. “Please. Tell me.”

  Dr Haven regarded Cyan. His smile was as sly as it was subtle. “I’ll keep it simple for you,” he said. “While the Lethe Method can very adeptly remove people’s memories, there’s often a stubborn…residue that lingers. Emotional dregs, if you will. And they’re much more difficult to remove than the memories that created them. Hence, for example, your special relationship with fire.”

  “Wha—” Cyan’s mouth flapped open and shut, but nothing else came.

  “Fear of fire is just the tip of your iceberg, Cyan. There are emotions you have that you’re not even aware of. Emotions the Lethe Method tucks deeply away.”

  Warm sweat was beading on Cyan’s forehead. “Tucks away?” He pushed a hand against his chest, trying to slow his racing heart. “But…the fire… It’s a phobia. It’s nothing to do with my past. You… You said so!”

  “I say whatever’s necessary. And your phobia has everything to do with your past. I know you better than you know yourself, Cyan. I have your resident’s file. I know all about your history, about your parents.”

  Cyan’s breaths came out in gasps. “My parents?” Hot pain flared suddenly behind his eyes. He blinked it away, shook his head aggressively. “But these…emotional dregs… What have they got to do with Jonquil?”

  “As I mentioned, most of them we can keep deeply hidden. But their repression can have…” The doctor hesitated. “Actually, I think I’ve told you enough.”

  “Tell me.” Cyan’s fists began clenching by his sides. He could feel his anger rising. Fury bubbled beneath his fear. “Or are you scared of saying something you shouldn’t?” He nodded at the syringe. “Is there a chance I’ll remember?”

  Dr Haven raised his ch
in, just a little, then blinked several times, in quick succession. He smiled at the liquid in the syringe. “Oh, there’s no chance you’ll remember.”

  Cyan sensed a chink in the doctor’s armour. “Then why not tell me what happened to Jonquil?”

  “I have a lot to attend to, Cyan. Speaking further would be a waste of time.”

  Cyan nodded again at the needle. “Because of what you’ll do with that?” He rolled back his shoulders and forced all the conviction he could into his voice. “I don’t think it’s as reliable as you say. I think you don’t want to say more because your methods aren’t good enough.”

  Cyan had no doubt the drug in the syringe would work. But he went on goading as best as he could, pushing at the only vulnerability open to him: the director’s arrogance. “They’ve failed you before,” he went on. “I know what you did. You tried to remove my memory. Of what I found on the whale bones. But it didn’t work.”

  The doctor’s thin lips parted, but for once he seemed lost for words. His eyebrows sank darkly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “So much for your ethical code. And so much for your stupid strobes. That’s why you won’t tell me. You’re scared to. Your gimmicks and gadgets aren’t reliable.”

  The light was harsh enough to expose a faint reddening in Dr Haven’s cheeks. He considered Cyan with eyes like grey marbles, then spoke firmly through stiffening lips. “I’m not entirely sure how you remember the message on those bones, Cyan. I can only assume some rogue trigger restored the memory; strobe therapy works over gradual sessions, and I was working with limited data.” He pointed his syringe at Cyan. “But that’s not the case today. This drug is thorough, quick and completely reliable. So I’ll finish what I was saying, Cyan, and I’ll do so because you will forget.”

  The director took a deep breath. His cheeks dulled from pink to grey. “The repression of certain emotions – not just those left by the forgotten trauma, but also anxieties that sometimes develop here on the island – can lead to complications. It creates hidden tensions: emotional conflict and confusion, of which the patient mostly isn’t aware. And this pressure can express itself in various ways, some of which are mild – the whitening of your hair, for example, or Teal’s obsessive fretting – and some of which become more extreme, as we saw in Jonquil. She’s an unfortunate casualty of the method. Damaged goods.”

  Cyan’s eyes were agape. “So the treatment can be…harmful?”

  “For now – until I determine how to iron out its flaws.”

  “Its flaws? But what about Jonquil? What if more residents get hurt? You can’t do that!”

  “Actually I can. That’s essentially what you all signed up for.”

  “You give us pills before we sign! I saw you do it with Jonquil. What do those pills do?”

  “I don’t have to tell you. That’s another right you signed away.”

  Cyan threw his hands into his hair. “So the sanctuary… It’s just a big…experiment for you?” He gestured at Ruby and Teal. “And all the residents – we’re just your lab rats?”

  “It’s an experiment for now. But when the treatment is perfected it will be an immensely profitable business. Can you imagine how much people will pay to have their worst memories removed? For the gift of genuinely selective memory? That’s why our investors pour millions into this little…enterprise.”

  Cyan was speechless again. The syringe’s needle glinted when the director took another step towards him. “Enough chit-chat, Cyan. It’s time to take your medicine.”

  Cyan stepped back, with wide eyes fixed on the syringe. “No!” He looked about the room, glanced at Teal and Ruby on their trolley beds. “I can’t forget all this!”

  The director’s expression was kind. Almost benevolent. “I assure you, you can. And won’t it be nice? Instantaneous peace of mind. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.” He put a finger to his lower lip. “Actually, it can. But you know what I mean.”

  He gave the syringe a little shake. “I have something here to knock you senseless and make you forget any of this ever happened. You can go back to climbing shipwrecks and playing in the sand. Now give me your arm.”

  Cyan glared while Dr Haven gripped his wrist. But as soon as the needle came close he swiped with his free hand, so that the syringe flew from the doctor’s fingers.

  Together, they watched it roll with a brittle chime across the floor.

  A rising grey eyebrow. “So. You’d prefer to do this the hard way. Very well. Mr Banter likes the hard way.” Dr Haven’s hand went to his coat pocket, but the moment he removed his staff locket, Cyan slapped it to the floor as well.

  The doctor narrowed his eyes at Cyan. He moved to recover the locket, but faltered when Cyan grabbed a metal chair and aimed its legs at him.

  Director and resident glared silently at one another, until Cyan pivoted the chair suddenly in his hands. He slammed the chair’s foot again and again against the locket’s silver casing. A fierce clanging ricocheted across tiles.

  Dr Haven looked first at the locket’s remains on the floor, and then at the legs of the chair, which were aimed at him once more. Cyan’s breaths came quick and sharp.

  The doctor tilted his head, before smoothing some of the hair that bordered his bald patch. He adjusted his tie, turned on his heels and headed for the door from which he’d come.

  “Where are you going?” called Cyan.

  “To fetch Mr Banter. I don’t need a locket to bring him here. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. And even more ways to skin a lab rat.”

  In no rush at all, Dr Haven left the room. Cyan caught a glimpse of the corridor outside – of concrete walls and a stained linoleum floor – before the door slammed shut.

  Cyan stood frozen for several moments, his chair still poised in the air. His chest rose and fell beneath his gown, until he threw the chair aside and ran to try the door handle. It was locked. He spun around, searching the room, then ran to the door on its opposite side. That was locked too.

  Cyan’s sweat felt hot on his skin. His pupils darted about the room, before settling on the syringe he’d knocked from Dr Haven’s hand.

  Panting rapidly, he ran to the syringe and crouched to pick it up. He eyed the transparent liquid in its barrel, looking closely at the size of the dose, then dashed to the metal sink. With hands shaking, he squirted the syringe’s contents into the plug hole. He turned on the tap and – after drawing water up through the syringe’s needle – squirted a little back out again, so that the quantity looked the same.

  He skidded across the room and put the syringe on the floor, in the same position it had been before.

  It didn’t take long for Dr Haven to return with Mr Banter. Cyan was ready for them, with his chair hoisted again.

  Dr Haven gestured at the syringe. “If you’d be so kind, Mr Banter.”

  Mr Banter smiled blandly while strolling to the syringe and picking it up. As he closed in, Cyan grimaced at the needle extending from the glass barrel. His words trembled when he spoke. “Does the needle really need to be so big?”

  Mr Banter paused and looked back towards Dr Haven. The doctor’s smile curled upwards. “Actually, no. It doesn’t.”

  Cyan swung the chair with all his strength, but it was blocked by Mr Banter’s palm, then plucked away like a toy. It clattered across the room, and Cyan was swallowed by the orderly’s approach.

  His pupils darted to Dr Haven. “Just tell me first! Before I forget! What’ll happen to Jonquil?”

  “Oh, she’ll remain at the sanctuary – though out of sight and out of mind. She still has her uses. Just because a lab rat is damaged, it doesn’t mean you can’t take it apart for study. We learn as much from our failures as from our successes, don’t you think?”

  Cyan felt sudden, crushing pain and glanced down. His wrist had disappeared in Mr Banter’s fist, which looked grotesquely pink in the room’s white light. Cyan cried out at the needle’s cold sting, saw the plunger drop, closed his eyes and slumped to t
he floor.

  His arm throbbed with hot, prickling pain. It took all of Cyan’s willpower to feign unconsciousness. He heard Dr Haven speaking. “Put him back on the trolley while I prepare something. He could do with an extra sedative to keep him out of trouble; I’ve had more than my fill of that brat today. Oh, and fetch his file from next door, will you? I’d like to add some notes.”

  Large hands fumbled beneath Cyan’s chest and waist. The ground fell away, before the rubbery softness of a mattress came up to meet him.

  There were footsteps, another sting in the arm, and everything went away.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Cyan became aware of muffled sounds. Something wet was clinging to his forehead.

  He stirred where he lay, forcing his heavy eyelids open, just a crack. Daylight hit his pupils and he gasped in pain.

  He pulled himself up and blinked, willing his eyes to adjust to the light. Murmured sounds floated through the air, and when the glare died away he found himself in blurred but familiar surroundings. Deep-set circular windows. Beds with wheels and raised wooden guards. Cabinets and drawers, vases of sea lavender…

  He was in the sanctuary’s medical quarters. The last time he’d been here he’d broken his ankle, after falling from a ledge in one of the island’s caves.

  “…to cool you down.”

  A voice by his ear. He jerked away, with hands shooting up to guard his face, then saw Ms Ferryman, the sanctuary’s head orderly, sitting by his side.

  Her forehead was creased with concern. She put aside the flannel she’d been holding to his head and handed him his tortoiseshell glasses.

  Cyan snatched the glasses and slipped them on. He noticed the needle buried deep in his hand, which was connected by tubing to a suspended bag of liquid.

  Blinking behind his glasses, Cyan looked around once more. He was sitting up on a bed, with white sheets rumpled around his legs, and still wore a grey hospital gown. The other beds were empty. He and Ms Ferryman were alone.

  “Easy,” hushed Ms Ferryman. “Try not to strain yourself. I’ll call for Dr Haven.”