The Memory Thieves

by Darren Simpson

  One side of Dr Haven’s mouth curled upwards. “And then, not long after that, you come running into my office, with an absurd tale about an orderly stealing residents’ files. I noticed, of course, that you’d done something to the back of my coat. If I were you, Cyan, I’d steer well clear of a career in pickpocketing.

  “As soon as I was in the corridor, I had a look and there it was: your locket, clipped to my coat. It doesn’t take a genius to see what you were attempting to do. I wasn’t at all surprised to receive a call from the staff floor, shortly after I’d dismissed you from my office; Professor Vadasz had been found unconscious in his room. Which confirmed my suspicion: I was being tracked.”

  The doctor let out a sigh. “Before that, when I’d just found your locket on my coat…” His thin tongue darted across his lips. “I decided to play along with your game. I gave you everything you needed: the location of the residents’ files and the code for the lift. I didn’t really call Mr Banter while you were in my office; I merely announced the code, and invented a fiction about an hourly code change, to ensure you’d be down here soon. And here you are.” He pinched his long fingers together, before moving them sideways across the air. “Checkmate.”

  Cyan’s breaths came short and sharp. He felt hot and faint and struggled to pull the sterile air into his lungs. “But why’d you… Why did you guide us here?”

  Dr Haven drummed his fingertips together. “When you suspect that some of your lab rats are misbehaving, Cyan, the best way to identify them is to leave them to it, until they inevitably give themselves away. And when they’ve done so, you offer what they want as bait, and you lure them into a trap.

  “I knew you couldn’t be working alone; not if someone was tracking your locket. And of course, it was Ruby. She’s the one who joined you far out on the sands. It’s her locket that’s presently with yours behind the institute.

  “And now I have both of you exactly where I want. Two naughty little rats, trapped and tucked away down here, where no one will ever intrude. And I can do whatever I want with you. Anything at all.”

  The doctor entwined his fingers. Cyan recoiled at the crack of bony knuckles.

  “Naughty rats,” continued Dr Haven, “need to be taught a lesson. They need to be dealt with so that they’re never naughty again. The last thing we want is for their naughtiness to upset the other rats or – even worse – give them ideas. It’s…”

  He trailed off when Mr Banter entered the theatre. The huge orderly made the doctor look gaunt, sharp, funereal.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr Banter.” Dr Haven turned his ear once more to the corridor; the thumping had stopped. “It sounds like Ruby’s settled down. We can deal with her shortly, but first I have some business here to attend to.”

  He put a thin, immaculate finger to his chin, scrutinizing Cyan. “I’m very curious, you see, about the cause behind the effect. What exactly sent you and Ruby down here, Cyan? Did you go to all of this trouble simply to look at your files?”

  Cyan replied through gritted teeth. “Jonquil.” His hands curled into balls. “It was Jonquil. That’s what brought us down here.”

  One of Dr Haven’s eyebrows rose, before sinking to meet the other. “Is that so? And what do you know of…Jonquil?”

  “I know everything. I know your treatment damaged her. I know you hid her away, wiped her from everyone’s memory.”

  The director’s smile tightened. He lowered his head, considering Cyan closely. “And how could you possibly know about Jonquil? You were treated along with all the other residents.”

  “No.” Cyan allowed himself a grim smirk. “I swapped the filth in your syringe with water. And then I played along.”

  “But…” Dr Haven’s eyelids fluttered. His mouth opened – just enough to bare a sliver of teeth – and he nodded slowly. “Ah. Of course. You must have swapped the drug while I fetched Mr Banter. And the water…” A flash of those grey, glassy eyes. “That explains your fever after the treatment. The bacteria in tap water is fine in the digestive system, but not so much in the bloodstream.”

  He considered this, then began nodding in approval. “That was actually quite clever of you, Cyan. Admirable initiative. But I’m afraid your more recent strategy – the indiscreet prying, your implausible bluffs and clumsy locket work… That wasn’t clever at all. It was downright inept. I’m a little disappointed, if I’m honest. I’d never have expected such poor attempts at subterfuge from someone of your intelligence. Then again, it does fit your personality profile. The recklessness of it. The…audacity.”

  The doctor’s face darkened. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils, and that affable smile returned. “Well, Cyan. If you faked your amnesia, you’ll no doubt remember our little exchange in the room behind me. You’ll know what went wrong with Jonquil; how the Lethe Method caused irreversible damage to the poor thing.”

  “Yes!” spat Cyan. He flung an arm towards the wall on the right. “I know about the others too, all damaged like Jonquil and hidden in cells! And I bet they won’t be the last!”

  The director’s lips drooped. A mockery of regret. “I daresay they won’t. Unfortunately, the method has some considerable way to go. But you know what they say: if at first you don’t succeed…”

  He laughed then, with mild-mannered pleasure. “You and Ruby will soon have first-hand experience of what those residents went through. The repression that does so much damage to you all, all that hidden conflict… I don’t yet know how to prevent it, but I certainly know how to accelerate it. I’ll do so for you and Ruby, down here, in my own time. And I’ll enjoy doing so, thoroughly. It’s nice, don’t you think, when business is also pleasure?”

  While the director beamed, Cyan fought the trembling in his limbs. He jabbed his finger at the ceiling. “But everyone else!” He tried to sound strong, but his words came out guttural and cracked. “Up there… If we’re missing they’ll—”

  “They’ll what?” interrupted Dr Haven. He chuckled. “You know very well what will happen up there, Cyan. A few strobe sessions are all it takes. First you and Ruby will become…hazy in residents’ minds. They’ll be confused, for a spell, but they’ll take their medicine and they won’t think twice about it. And before you know it – pop – no one remembers you at all. You and Ruby will be practically dead to them. Worse than dead, in fact. You’ll never have existed in the first place.”

  With his eyes scouring the floor, Cyan tried to find words. When he looked up, a shiver coursed from his spine to the back of his legs. He’d never seen Dr Haven grin. It was all teeth and thin skin, and brought to mind the skulls he’d fled from next door.

  Cyan’s throat began to swell. “But how…how can you do this? You and the staff…” His pupils flickered to Mr Banter. “How can you all do this? And…and to children?”

  “Poor boy,” crooned Dr Haven. He turned briefly to Mr Banter and they exchanged droll looks. “You’re even less informed than you think. Only Mr Banter and I know about this floor. As far as the staff are aware, the residents who have breakdowns are sent to a separate rehabilitation centre, where they make speedy recoveries and live the happiest, most contented of lives. The staff don’t ask questions. They’re paid well not to.”

  The director shrugged. “You think we avoid CCTV here just to keep you residents at ease? It’s better if staff don’t know about my extracurricular activities. They might not approve of the treatment’s more…experimental elements. Sadly, some people are prone to ethical pretentions. Not everyone’s as committed to science and the greater good as Mr Banter and myself.”

  Cyan tensed as hard as he could, doing his best to stop his shaking. He felt anger boiling in the pit of his stomach, burning away his fear. “Don’t talk about science and the greater good! I remember what you said before. This is about making money.”

  The director breathed onto one of his cufflinks. He polished it while speaking. “The money’s merely a bonus. As I said, Cyan: it’s nice when business is pleasu
re.”

  “You won’t get away with this.” Cyan’s voice was rising. He found himself straightening up, with fists clenched and knuckles whitening. “All these people disappearing… People will ask questions! They’ll come looking! There’ll be parents, authorities…”

  A tut from Dr Haven. “I assure you, there won’t. We’re very careful in our recruitment of residents. We take in juvenile strays and runaways. Lost causes. Children with young, limited memories and nothing to lose. No one ever comes looking for them. And even if they did, the people who invest in this sanctuary are wealthy and powerful. They ensure our island remains a blind spot and cover our tracks wherever necessary. This sanctuary attracts support from very influential people, Cyan; people willing to sacrifice for a nobler cause.”

  Cyan sneered. “But they’re not sacrificing themselves, are they. They’re sacrificing others. They’re sacrificing people who are suffering and vulnerable.”

  A resigned shrug from the director. “The way of the world, I’m afraid. Now, Cyan, I have a little something for you.” He turned to Mr Banter. “Keep an eye on him, will you? I won’t be a moment.”

  The doctor disappeared through the doorway, leaving Cyan alone with Mr Banter.

  While Cyan pursed his lips and took deep, angry breaths, the orderly smiled contentedly, with eyes bright and blue behind his glasses.

  Dr Haven soon returned and tossed a folder across the room. It skidded across the floor, before coming to a stop by Cyan’s feet.

  “What’s this?” asked Cyan.

  “Your resident’s file. Everything’s in there. Your real name. Where you came from. Why you came here.”

  Cyan stared at the file. Then he crouched to reach out with a slow, trembling hand. But he hesitated, just before touching the folder.

  He lifted his gaze to Dr Haven, who was watching him with some curiosity. “Why are you giving me this?”

  “No reason.”

  Cyan’s eyes narrowed. “Is this for your research? Will you be making notes?” He looked at the wall to his right. “Or is this how it begins – how you start making me like the residents in those cells?”

  Dr Haven brushed some lint from his waistcoat. “A little of both. Perhaps something more. Think of this as a parting gift, before we lose you for good. For all of your cockiness, Cyan, I was fond of you, in some ways. You were always one of our more interesting specimens.”

  Cyan stood up and rolled back his shoulders. The folder lay untouched on the floor. “I’m not a specimen, and I don’t want that file. I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.”

  “Come now, Cyan. You must be ever so intrigued.”

  Cyan tried to keep his eyes on the director, but it was impossible. He couldn’t stop his head from lowering. His gaze fell to the file by his feet.

  “I can see you’re tempted,” said Dr Haven. “Perhaps some snippets will motivate you. How about if I say…Nicholas Bromden? That’s your name, Cyan. Your real name. And what if I also say…Joni? Or Scott? Scott and Joni Bromden, your—”

  “Parents,” said Cyan. He was still looking at the folder. His shoulders began to sink. All the fight in his stance was gone.

  “That’s right. Would you like to know more? It’s all there for you, in that file.”

  Morosely, but with eyes still glued to the folder, Cyan shook his head.

  “How about,” continued Dr Haven, “if I mention fire? A fire in the family home. Hm?”

  Cyan couldn’t even shake his head. He stood there, immobile, with his neck crooked. His windpipe became tight and ticklish. He could almost smell the smoke, coarse and thick in his nostrils and throat. He put a hand to his face, felt the heat coursing across his cheek.

  “I think,” said Dr Haven, “you have an inkling of where this story’s going.”

  Cyan pushed his hands against his ears. He could hear the distant crackling of wood. Closing his eyes, he saw blistering paint, billowing smoke – walls and curtains eaten by flame. Someone was wailing through the roar, crying through the heat – strangled and sorrowful sounds, at once familiar and unknown.

  The doctor raised his voice so Cyan could hear him. “The curious thing, though, is that it wasn’t the fire that killed your mother. Not as such. She stayed with your father in the building, trying to find you. You were too frightened to escape, lost in all the smoke. Just a twelve-year-old boy. The three of you got out alive. It seemed all would be well.”

  Something acrid was pooling beneath Cyan’s tongue. His eyelids began to sting and he clamped them shut, trying to stave off the pressure that was building behind his eyes. His shaking hands fell from his ears.

  The doctor went on. “But your mother died in hospital, sadly. There were complications, from all the smoke she’d inhaled.

  “I remember you saying, when you first arrived here – before you filmed your oath – that it wasn’t just her passing that upset you. It was the fact that she’d survived the fire only to die anyway. How cruel to be given hope, only to have it torn away.

  “That’s what really tortured you, Cyan. That and the guilt, of course. I daresay your mother would have lived, if she hadn’t stayed in the house to save you.”

  A pained whimper left Cyan’s lips.

  Dr Haven tutted. “It’s hardly surprising that your father turned to alcohol. You told me you were frightened by how quickly you became invisible to him. All he did was drink; he was completely lost without your mother. Lost, and pretty much…dead too. That’s how you phrased it, Cyan. And though your father never said as much, you felt he blamed you for your mother’s death. You blamed yourself, after all.

  “It’s no wonder you left home and ran away.” The director gave a wistful sigh. “It’s all so terribly tragic, isn’t it? I had no doubt you’d accept a place here at the sanctuary. You were a perfect candidate.”

  Cyan was barely aware of the fact that he’d sunk to his knees. The pain behind his eyes was liquid fire. He threw down his glasses and pushed his palms against his eyelids.

  “They loved you so very much, Cyan. You said so yourself. And you can see it in every visual record in that file. We have all the photos that survived the fire. We gathered every picture available to us online and off. Beaches and tents. School nativity plays. Blowing out candles on birthday cakes. Your mother was pretty. And you had your father’s dark hair – until it all turned white.”

  Try as he might, Cyan still couldn’t remember his parents’ faces. All that came back to him was the fear and the smoke, the grief and the flames.

  And the love. The fierce love that kindled the hurt and fanned the sorrow.

  Cyan pulled his hands from his eyes. He looked at Dr Haven, who’d stepped forward to watch him more closely.

  “It hurts, doesn’t it?” said the doctor. He was flexing his lips downwards, trying to look sad. But even without glasses, Cyan saw glee in his eyes. The pain writhed and wrenched in his gut, twisting into bitterness and gall.

  “Sometimes it’s best to forget,” soothed Dr Haven. “Don’t you think so? Can you see now what I’m offering to the world, Cyan, if I manage to get this treatment right?”

  Cyan’s jaw ached. He’d been grinding his teeth.

  Scowling, he took his glasses from the floor, put them on and looked the director straight in the eye. “I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to lose the pain. Never again. It’s part of me. It’s how my mum’s still part of me. My dad too. I’d rather…hurt than forget!”

  He lifted his glasses to swipe a hand across his eyes and was surprised to feel something damp. When he realized what it was, he gasped and stared at his knuckles.

  And there it was: a tear streak, glimmering in the harsh white light.

  He looked up. Dr Haven was staring too.

  The director scratched the side of his bald patch. “How curious. It appears someone’s been skipping their medicine. That certainly explains a thing or two.”

  His eyes shifted to Cyan’s face. That ghoulish grin returned. �
��Say what you want, Cyan, but I’m afraid you will forget. I’ll see to it personally that you do.”

  He looked again at the streak on Cyan’s hand. “I’ll allow you that tear. But everything else will stay locked up, so that it can rot you away from the inside. Just like it’s rotting every resident in those cells.”

  He stepped aside. “Now if you’d be so kind, Mr Banter, put him to sleep.”

  Mr Banter, with a pearly smile spreading across his face, approached Cyan. He took a pale cartridge from his starched, white trousers.

  Cyan stooped to clutch the file in his hand. With his eyes never leaving the orderly, he shifted into a crouch and held up the folder, so that it hid the cartridge he’d eased from his blazer.

  “It’s too late to look at that file,” said Dr Haven. “You had your chance.”

  Mr Banter was almost upon him. Those teeth – as pristine and white as his uniform – looked tiny and copious, as if there were too many for his mouth. He twirled the cartridge in his thick pink fingers. A long needle glittered at its end.

  While still holding the file in one hand, Cyan tightened his grip on the cartridge in the other. His expression twitched beneath a film of sweat, flitting between terror and resolve. He could hear the orderly’s breathing, steady and loud, forced from huge, bellow-like lungs.

  Mr Banter poised his needle, bracing to strike. But his smirk vanished when the cartridge flew from his hand, knocked aside by Cyan’s folder.

  Throwing the file into Mr Banter’s face, Cyan sidestepped and plunged his own needle into the orderly’s thigh. Mr Banter winced and gaped in bewilderment at the cartridge jutting from his leg.

  Cyan snatched the hammer from the trolley and dashed at Dr Haven, who was blocking his way out. Trembling and panting, Cyan drew the hammer back, threatening to strike.

  The doctor’s eyes were on the hammer’s silver head. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” His gaze moved to Cyan’s face. “It goes against your profile.”

  He reached out to take the hammer, but Cyan took a swing that forced him to whip back his hand.